Deception
by Shirl
Summary: COMPLETED. Following the Opera Populaire tragedy, Erik flees Paris to settle in London. Two years later, he meets a young woman who shares a similar gift for music. Drawn to each other for different reasons, they form an unlikely alliance. E&OW.
1. Prologue: Face Your Fate

Disclaimer: I own nothing related to the Phantom Of The Opera. Credit for the character of Erik goes to Gaston Leroux.

A/N: I'd like to begin by stating that this is my first POTO fic and I'm a little nervous about posting it. I'm not quite sure why. But in any case, here it is and I hope at least a few of you find some enjoyment in it. This is an E/OC pairing. Sorry, Erik doesn't appear until the next chapter. This is just the Prologue that introduces my original character.

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Although she had expected these very words to be spoken, the finality of hearing them uttered aloud still shook her to the core.

She was going blind.

"Are you all right, my dear?" asked the concerned voice of the blurred shape sitting a short distance away.

Melodie nodded, not yet trusting herself to speak. A moment longer was all she needed to regain her composure. Her hands busied themselves by smoothing over the plain fabric of her skirt.

"I'm fine," she finally managed to say. "Will I…" Swallowing hard, she tried again. "Will I lose my sight completely?"

"It's difficult to know for sure. At worst, yes. But I've encountered other cases like yours where vision exists but is terribly impaired. Blurry and distorted. However, they did not go completely blind. They could still distinguish colours and light."

This gave her some renewed hope. She couldn't bear the thought of being plunged completely into unfathomable darkness. The prospect filled her with such terror and anguish, she refused to even consider the possibility. "Should I continue the liquid drops for my eyes? Or a stronger pair of spectacles, perhaps?"

When Doctor Haines failed to reply immediately, she instinctively knew the answer. Nothing was helping. In fact, her vision had worsened since the last time she had come four months ago. "Well, I suppose I won't be needing these any longer," she said briskly, unhooking the thick spectacles from behind her ears and setting them down on the adjacent table. They were heavy and uncomfortable and she was frankly glad to be rid of them.

His voice was heavily laced with regret. "I'm sorry, Melodie. I wish there were more I could do. Perhaps another specialist could…"

"You are the third specialist I've seen and none of them have been able to help. You, at least, have been the most kind. Thank you for that."

She rose to her feet, a silent indication that this appointment was over. Shuffling and movement around her indicated that he was retrieving her coat. The warmth of the cloth soon enveloped her and she buttoned it up, pulling on her gloves.

"Shall I see you to your carriage?" he asked.

Stiffening her spine, she drew herself up to the tallest height her petite form could manage. "Thank you, but no. Haven't I answered 'no' each time you have asked for the past year?" She kept her tone light and teasing, knowing he spoke out of ingrained courtesy.

He responded with gentle humour. "So you have. Forgive my politeness. It's always rearing its ugly head." He followed her as far as the door, opening it for her. "Please say hello to Henry for me," he murmured.

She looked up, trying to gaze into the approximate vicinity of the doctor's eyes. Even from a mere two feet in distance, the outlines of his face were blurry. However, she knew his hair was greying, the skin of his face wrinkled and starting to sag. The eyes were light brown and filled with professional compassion as he routinely examined her own dark brown orbs, a scant few inches from her nose. Within such close range, she could yet see fairly well. The reading of large print and her precious musical notes were still feasible. How much longer that would last, she did not know.

"I will. Take care, Doctor."

With a half-hearted smile, she moved down the straight cobblestone path towards the waiting carriage. The air was chilly but damp, threatening of rain rather than snow. A mist hung in the air, no doubt obscuring the view of the street, even if she were blessed with perfect vision.

A weighted thud of boots jumping to the ground reached her ears. The carriage door swung open and she accepted the proffered hand of the driver, stepping up into the cab. As always, the internal confines of the small, dark space made her uneasy and she pressed herself as close to the small window as possible. Thankfully, the ride home would not be too long. With a soft nicker, the patient horses seemed to signal their readiness and she felt the usual jolt as they began to move. The rhythmic motions of the ride served to soothe her nerves a little as she settled back on the velvet-cushioned seat.

Her thoughts turned towards the only home she'd ever known and the very real possibility that she might be ejected from that safe haven. What practical use was a blind woman in a household, after all? Although she'd tried to earn her keep through housework and tutoring, she realized her precarious position. Henry Blythe was a trusted and enduring head of the staff, having worked for the Wentworth family almost thirty years. Because he regarded Melodie as a daughter, she too had been accepted into the family's home. But how long could she continue the ruse?

Her eyesight had been fine for the first twenty years of her life. Then, ever so gradually, it had started its decline. The cause was a great unknown, according to the several specialists that Henry had arranged for her to see. An infection, perhaps, or some strange condition passed along from a previous generation. Ultimately, the cause was no matter. It was the result that she had to live with. For the past five years she'd worked diligently to compensate her failing vision by heightening her other senses. She could hear a knock on the front door from the third floor of the house and could smell the promise of rain in the wind even when at first glance, the morning dawned bright and clear. Her sensitive and careful fingers kept the household spotless without ever breaking an object. In fact, she had so perfected the illusion of normalcy, no one save Henry even suspected her eyesight was so poor. She was regarded as simply another servant and thus, she kept her head down and gaze lowered to the floor. On occasions where she had no choice but to look upon the face of whomever was addressing her, she could only hope that she was gazing directly into their eyes. If she were off her mark, which no doubt happened more often than not, it could be construed as shyness or awareness of her low ranking. But now, with this prognosis, the future seemed bleak. She would speak to Henry immediately.

As the ride continued, she found herself humming aloud. It was a mournful melody, assuredly in a minor key, that befitted her sombre mood. By the time the carriage pulled up to the front gate, she'd decided a B flat minor would probably work best. Despite her current worries, she was pleased with this little gem and most anxious to try it out on the piano.

She wound her way around to the rear of the house and let herself in through the back. The kitchen was a beehive of activity as usual. She recognized the staff mainly through voices but sometimes in other ways. One young woman, Julia, always smelled of rose petals. And another kitchen maid, Francesca, was an overly robust woman who suffered from laboured breathing. Melodie had discovered that everyone possessed something distinctive and unique that set him or her apart. Once she isolated that certain aura or characteristic, recognition was never a problem.

Calling out a greeting, she inquired as to Henry's whereabouts. Under one arm, she held a wrapped parcel. The "medication" that she'd received from Doctor Haines for Henry's occasional stomach ailment. At least, that was the ruse that had been concocted for her semi-regular trips to the good doctor's office.

Upon being told that Henry was in the drawing room, Melodie went up the back stairs. Compared to the organized chaos downstairs, she found the quiet stillness of the upper floor relaxing. As she walked, she counted out the steps and turns in her mind. While the notion might sound tedious to the sighted, it had become so routine to her, it was done on a subconscious level. So automatic that she wasn't even aware of it.

"Henry?" she called out.

"There you are," he answered back. "I was getting worried."

Following his voice, she realized he was seated at the piano. As she bent to kiss his cheek, he took the package from her hands. "I'm late, I know. Doctor Haines is very thorough. He says hello. Did you finish Rebecca's lesson?"

She tossed her coat aside and settled beside him on the bench, hearing the impatience in his tone. "Yes, yes. I believe she was mortally offended that her beloved teacher wasn't here. But tell me, what did he have to say? Is there anything he can do?"

"No. He proved my suspicions to be correct, I'm afraid. I'm going blind." Though her voice was soft, the words carried a finality that weighed heavily on her.

"Oh, Mellie," His hand settled on her shoulder and she gratefully accepted the small comfort. "I'm so sorry."

A dull ache started to grow behind her eyes but she refused to give in to tears. "I don't know what to do," she whispered. She had no need to elaborate further. Having had several discussions regarding this possible prognosis already, Henry would know what she referred to.

"Let me talk to Mister Wentworth. He's a good man. A generous one. He'll allow you to stay on. I'm sure of it."

"Perhaps."

He'd made exceptions in the past. Albert Wentworth was a decent family man and had always treated her with kindness and respect.

When she was five, Henry had seated her at the piano on a lark. She'd been fascinated with the instrument and though he'd only had very basic skills, he'd taught her to play. To his amazement and delight, she'd shown a startling ear and gift for music. By the age of six, she'd begun playing pieces far beyond her years. By the age of eight, she'd started composing. Simple little tunes to start. But then one day, Henry had taken her to see a classical concert. He knew someone who worked backstage at the theatre and they had been allowed to sit up on the rafters, off to the side of the orchestra. It had been a piano concerto and the glorious sound had filled her soul with joy and wonder. She'd never heard anything more beautiful. To this day, she sat up on the rafters whenever the opportunity arose. A wooden chest in the attic housed all of her scribbled compositions. The sad melody that she'd conjured up today would soon join the collection.

Only Henry knew about her composing, but having been impressed by her gift, Albert had encouraged her to play the piano whenever time permitted. Just last year, when his youngest daughter Rebecca had shown an interest in playing, he'd asked Melodie to teach her. Some of the servants grumbled that Melodie was stepping above her place in the household but she didn't care. Rebecca was bright, eager to learn and showed promise. Melodie took great pleasure in tutoring the young child.

Yes, it was quite conceivable that Albert might allow her to reside in his home despite her handicap. His wife, however, might have an objection or two. Ellen Wentworth had never taken a liking to her. In truth, Ellen mostly ignored her and spoke to her only when absolutely necessary. She was seen as a servant and nothing more. If she became completely blind and unable to perform her duties, Ellen most certainly would not allow her to live under her roof as a charity case.

"Mellie?" Henry's inquiring voice broke into her thoughts.

"Let's not reveal anything just yet," she said finally, keeping her voice low. "I can continue on as I have. No one suspects anything."

He hesitated before speaking, as if unsure of the wisdom of her decision. "Are you sure? Mr. Wentworth adores you, dear girl. As if you were his own daughter."

"I don't know about that. But it's possible my vision may not worsen. Perhaps Dr. Haines is wrong. I don't want to be…premature." While part of her realized she was clinging to false hope, the optimistic side of her rallied to her defense. Doctors were known to be wrong in the past. They were only human, after all. She would simply have to take care not to strain her eyes. No more bedtime reading, struggling to focus gritty, tired eyes to see through the magnifying lens. But she couldn't give up her composing. She hadn't resigned herself to that fate yet, perhaps because it was inconceivable. "Swear to me, Henry that you will not speak of this yet."

"As you wish. It's your decision."

"Thank you." She repositioned herself at the piano and placed her hands over the keys. "Now, tell me what you think of this. It's rather dark and melancholy but most suitable for the day I have had." Beginning to feel at ease again with the coolness of the ivory beneath her fingers, she began to play.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

After dinner and the completion of her evening chores, Melodie went up to the attic. During much of her childhood, this had been her playground. It was essentially used as storage space for old, forgotten items. Everything from furniture, books, dishes, even toys. She had always found something to occupy her time. Sometimes, she'd simply curled up on a dusty chair with a book that was far too difficult for her to read. Nevertheless, she'd enjoyed flipping through the pages to find the odd illustration and tried to read as much as she could comprehend. Usually, the book had been later plopped into Henry's hands for him to read to her.

She sat on the floor now, her black skirt swirled around her and no doubt picking up every speck of dust from the wooden planks. Uncaring of that fact, she hunched over the top cover of the chest, scribbling furiously at her newest piece of work. The short little tune from earlier today had now expanded into something longer and more complex. Each time she dipped into the ink well, her hand struggled to keep pace with the music flowing through her mind. She should have brought more candles. In the dim light, her eyes were starting to itch and burn, her nose literally pressed to the paper in order to see what she was doing. Mere hours ago, she had vowed to stop straining her eyes. That promise fell by the wayside in favour of recording her internal muse before the notes floated away into oblivion.

"So this is what occupies your time up here."

The nib of her pen jabbed deeply into the paper; ink smearing and obscuring the last two notes. Instant annoyance flared within her but she quickly quelled the sharp emotion, her heart thudding rapidly at the unexpected intrusion. She wasn't used to being taken by surprise. Her concentration had been so absolute, she'd failed to hear the footsteps approaching.

Looking towards the doorway, she could only make out a faint, dark blob. But the voice was unmistakable. David Wentworth, eldest son of Albert and Ellen. Growing up, he'd been a friend. The last few years, she'd tried to avoid his very presence.

She attempted to make light of the situation. "I'm afraid you've caught me." Dropping the pen, she began gathering the papers together. "It's nothing. Just scribbles."

"Let me see."

Although he voiced it as a command and not a request, she lifted the lid of the chest. David crossed the short distance in three steps and promptly sat on the lid, almost catching her fingers beneath his weight. "Not so fast." The top sheet was snatched up and perused while she silently fumed. "You're right," he said at last. "Scribbles, indeed. At least to me. But obviously they mean much more to you." He thumped on his makeshift chair with one hand. "This chest is full of such scribbles."

Though she longed to throw him an accusatory gaze, she kept her head down. "Have you been spying on me?"

"Now that you mention it…yes. And I know it's not the only secret you keep."

The voice was deceptively silky and smooth but there was no mistaking the malice behind it. She swallowed nervously, wondering if he was just taunting her. "What do you mean?" she asked at last.

"Where are your spectacles?" he countered.

The abrupt shift in topic threw her off balance. "I…I have no need of them anymore." She inwardly cursed her foolishness. Casting them aside at the doctor's office had been an impulsive act. She hadn't thought of the questions that would arise from their absence.

"I see. You're suddenly blessed with perfect vision, then?"

She drew back in alarm, aware that he was leaning forward to inspect her face more closely. Turning her head away, she made an attempt to rise. "I should go. It's getting late."

He grabbed her forearm in a firm grip. It wasn't hurtful but effectively halted her escape. "Am I so hideous to you? You're always running away from me. We used to be such good companions."

She felt a pang of regret. "We were children. It's hardly appropriate now. Please let me go." Instead of releasing her, he slid down to join her on the floor. His other hand tucked under her chin, forcing her to look at him. His nearness unnerved her but she tried not to show any fear. He had always been able to smell it. Within this close range, his face swam into soft focus. It had been a long time since she'd seen him this clearly. The features were still aristocratically handsome, save for a slightly crooked nose. Blue eyes bore into hers intently, seeming to search for a hidden truth.

"You do see me," he breathed.

She jerked her head, trying to shake his grasp but failing. "Let. Me. Go," she hissed, growing increasingly agitated. Any fond memories of their childhood together were swiftly being overshadowed by remembrance of the cruel nature that lurked within him. It hadn't reared itself often but when it had, she'd been terrified. She'd sworn never to fall victim to his maliciousness again.

He continued to regard her, his gaze relentless. "You see me now but if I were to step away from you, you wouldn't be able to look into my eyes. Would you." His tone was flat, as if he knew he stated a fact.

Her stomach plummeted, the imagined movement making her nauseous. He knew. Somehow, he knew. She stilled within his grip, her eyes riveted to his. Strangely, she now found that she couldn't look away. "Your eyes hide nothing, do they? They never could. Yes, Melodie, I know that you're going blind. It's a mystery to me how you even function as well as you do. I've had my suspicions for a while now but they were confirmed today. I overheard you talking with Henry."

"Eavesdropping, were you?" she bit out angrily. "How like you."

"Ahh, now that's more like it," he chuckled, his lips curling in mirth. "I much prefer to see the fire in you. You've become such the meek mouse these last few years."

"I suppose you'll take great delight in informing your parents about my predicament."

"I think delight may be too strong a word. But have no doubt that I will tell them. Unless…"

As his voice trailed off, she wondered what he was scheming. When she felt the pad of his thumb caress her bottom lip, the touch sent a cold chill down her spine. With strength she didn't know she possessed, she shoved at his chest with both hands. Surprise at her sudden move caused his hold on her to relax and she seized the opportunity. Scrambling to her feet she started to make the motions to run but didn't get far. The front of her calves met an obstacle and she tripped, tumbling to the unforgiving floor. Trying to break her fall, her left elbow struck hard, sending a shooting pain up her arm. Biting her lip, she managed to avoid crying out. Although she immediately tried to lift herself up, two hands yanked on her shoulders, flipping her onto her back. She found her wrists ensnared within his fingers, locked into place on each side of her head. Incensed, she struggled against him, kicking and flailing. She knew that he must have stuck out his legs, deliberately tripping her. As the heavy weight of his body settled over her, effectively pinning her to the floor, she felt herself weakening. Panting with the exertion, she finally stopped fighting. She was no match for his brute strength. But her mind hadn't yet given up.

He grinned down at her, the triumph gleaming in his eyes. "Had enough? As I was saying, before that rude but quite enjoyable interruption, I will go to my parents. Unless, of course, you care to change my mind. There's something irresistible about you, Melodie. Always has been. I've never had a shortage of women throwing themselves at me and leading me to their beds. But I've always imagined what it would be like to possess you."

Fear warred with disgust within her. "You're despicable," she spat. "Get off of me."

"Not before I have a taste of you," he murmured.

He was going to kiss her. His breath was hot on her face, reeking of brandy and stale cigar smoke. She turned her head, revulsion making her shudder. The muscles in her neck strained with the effort of avoiding the contact. She found her arms dragged above her head as he attempted to transfer both of her slender wrists into one of his hands. But the exchange was clumsy and she managed to free one of her limbs.

Fingers clamped over her jaw and forced her lips to align with his. Her mouth was crushed with bruising force and she couldn't contain the tiny whimper in her throat as her teeth cut into the softness of her inner lip. When she felt his tongue slide along the edge of her mouth, she almost gagged. With her one free hand, she pushed ineffectually at his shoulder. Realizing how useless that was, she groped along the floor, hoping to find some miraculous weapon. She couldn't believe it when her fingers closed around her pen, almost hidden beneath the folds of her skirt. Without hesitation, she stabbed him on the back of his hand with furious strength.

The howl of agony and outrage was immediate and filled her ears, making them ring. When she pushed him away this time, there was no resistance. Gasping for breath, she swiped her lips, desperate to be rid of the taste of him. She wasted no time in leaping to her feet and fleeing for the door.

"You'll pay for this!" he cried out from behind.

As she flung herself down the stairs, her heart pounded in time to her clattering footsteps. She felt light-headed and ill, afraid that she would vomit right in the stairwell. Her normally blurry world was worsened by the welling tears in her eyes. She would not cry. She would not.

Only sheer luck prevented her from breaking her neck as she continued to careen down the steep steps. At last, she reached the lower level of the servants' quarters. Without knocking, she burst into Henry's room.

"Mellie? Good heavens, what's wrong, child?"

The sound of his dear voice fraught with worry was her undoing.

"I don't think I can stay here any longer," she whispered brokenly. Anger and sorrow squeezed with a vice-like grip on her heart until finally, she began to cry.


	2. Ch 1: That Shape In The Shadows

The familiar sound of an orchestra warming up – the final tuning of the string section, the occasional bleat from one of the horns, the trill of a lone flute – never failed to fill Erik's senses with pure pleasure and anticipation. Although he preferred the opera for its vocals, a symphonic concert was enjoyable for different reasons. One could truly appreciate the nuances of each instrument without the distraction of human voices.

He wondered if he would have company up in the rafters tonight. It had been several months since he'd seen her. Unlike him, she seemed to prefer a symphony or concerto to the opera.

As if on cue, she came into view, carefully making her way up the rickety ladder. She was dressed in her usual attire of a plain white blouse and black skirt. Either her wardrobe consisted solely of this one outfit or there were several of the same style blouse and skirt in her closet. The only hint of colour was a blue ribbon that held back her straight, chestnut hair.

He frowned, noticing something new. As she reached the landing and stepped gingerly across the catwalk, she swept a long black cane to and fro across her path. Could it be the girl was blind? He watched with interest as the older, grey haired man that he guessed to be her father, followed behind her. They took their seats and turned to each other, murmuring in low tones.

Although Erik had seen the woman many times from his hidden perch in the darkest corner, he'd never paid her much attention. Never bothered to eavesdrop on their conversation or even learn their names. But for some unknown reason, the revelation that she was blind intrigued him. He ventured a little further out of the shadows, straining his keen ears to catch any snippet of what they were saying.

"I don't know if I'll finish on time," she said, worrying her bottom lip with her teeth.

"But you must! Her birthday is less than a month away now."

"I know. But these wretched headaches! Even after thirty minutes, the ache starts and it worsens until I'm almost ill. I don't suppose I'll be paid if I miss the date."

The man shook his head. "No. Won't you accept my help? I can't jot the notes as deftly as you do but it might still be helpful…"

She gently interrupted him. "You've been more than helpful. I never would have received this commission without you."

Applause rang out around the theatre as the conductor made his way onto the stage, including the enthusiastic claps of the young woman and her chaperone.

Erik stared down at her, fascinated by what he'd just heard. _Blind and a commissioned composer? And a mere female, no less. How was it even possible?_ He yearned to learn more and could only hope they would pick up the thread of conversation later, perhaps during intermission. As the first soft strains of the violins began, he shrunk back into his hidden corner and settled down to enjoy the music.

To his annoyance, he found his mind wandering. He was aware it was happening yet he couldn't seem to stop it. Couldn't simply block out his thoughts and absorb himself in the swelling tide of the orchestra because of one simple fact – tomorrow was another anniversary.

It would mark two years since he'd last seen Christine Daaé. The days seemed filled with such anniversaries. The first time he'd sung to her when she'd been a young child, as her mysterious angel of music. The first time he'd physically touched her, leading her by hand down the passageways to his home. The first time in his existence he'd been kissed. The only time.

When Christine had shattered his heart and left him alone, he'd had some hard choices to make. He'd briefly considered ending his life. Hanging himself in his noose, perhaps, or drowning himself in the depths of the murky lake. But pride hadn't allowed it. He'd survived much worse in the past. His fragile, stupidly human heart might have been broken, but if he encased it in iron and never allowed anything to harm it again, it would eventually heal itself. Then he could regain his power and control and emerge stronger than ever. He had to admit, however, that he hadn't anticipated the road to his recovery would be so long. He was struggling still and unsure of the next path to take.

Two years had passed since that fateful night. The one and only performance of _Don Juan Triumphant _and the bittersweet parting of Christine from his life. Bitter because he knew he would never set eyes on her again. And yet, he sometimes felt the sweetness of that single kiss had been worth the turmoil he'd endured. In that one moment, he'd understood what it felt like to be a man in a way that he'd never thought possible.

He hadn't been able to stay, of course. Paris held too many memories and had become too dangerous for him. During his life at the opera house, he'd been able to amass a tidy sum. After crossing the English Channel, he'd bought a modest home just on the outskirts of London. But although he'd fled the country, he hadn't been able to escape his mind. In those first few months, his moods had swung wildly. Intense rage had battled with despair, as he'd alternated between screaming and sobbing. He'd wished Christine was truly happy at the same time he'd cursed her soul and longed to see her rot in hell. Then the guilt had consumed him for his heinous thoughts and he'd begged for her forgiveness. This had continued for what had seemed an eternity, a vicious cycle that had driven him nearly mad. After a time, the internal battle had gradually eased, perhaps because he'd simply exhausted himself. He'd then settled into a curious listlessness in which he'd ceased to care about anything. Though he'd still stopped short at deliberately ending his life, he wouldn't have been disturbed in the least if some unknown force had struck him dead.

During that initial year, he'd only stepped out of the house when absolutely necessary, the dark hood of his cloak helping to obscure his face. Shop clerks had always given a startled glance upon noticing his white mask but they'd never commented on it. He'd managed to live a quiet, anonymous life. Not that one could really call it living. In truth, he'd merely existed. Until one day, something unexpected had entered his life.

There had been a shallow scratching at the front door. For the longest while, he'd ignored it but the sound had persisted. Opening the door, he'd found a bundle of white and black fur, huddled on the ground. Black, sorrowful eyes had peered up at him and a pitiful whine had escaped its throat. Without hesitation, he'd brought the animal inside. The fur had been caked and matted with a combination of mud and blood; one of its hind legs twisted and broken. Its breathing had been laboured and shallow. Although he was no doctor, he'd sensed the animal hovered near death. The beating had been thorough indeed.

Anger and pity had coursed through Erik as he'd cleansed the animal's wounds and set the leg as best he could. Even though the process must have been horrendously painful, the dog had occasionally extended its pink tongue to lick his hand, as if giving thanks. He hadn't been sure if it would live through the night. He'd half expected to find a cold, stiff body to dispose of come morning. But when he'd awakened at first light, the dog had lifted its head slightly at the sight of him, wagging its plumed tail across the blanket that had served as its bed. He'd been pleasantly surprised. Like him, it had seemed to be a survivor. Days had melded into weeks as he'd continued to nurse the collie back to health. In time, the binding had been removed from its leg. Although it was now cursed with a hobbling limp, its joy at being able to walk again had been obvious.

On the day that the animal had taken its first tentative steps, Erik had decided to name her Sascha. After weeks of having been nameless and only referred to as "it", she'd deserved an identity.

That momentous day had also sparked his decision to live again. He'd started slowly, taking pleasure in small things. For instance, he'd been denying himself all but the most basic of food. For more than a year, he'd sustained himself mainly on bread, water, and the occasional slab of meat, just so he wouldn't collapse. He'd lost a significant amount of weight, even though he'd mostly sat around like a shapeless lump. When he'd finally indulged in some cheese, fruit, and a good bottle of wine, his taste buds had sung sharply. He'd forgotten how satisfying a good meal could be.

Then he'd started going for walks at night, exploring the neighbourhood with Sascha at his side. There was a great expanse of green fields behind the house, complete with a bubbling little brook. The next home was a good half-mile down the road so the location he'd chosen was ideal. Although he'd made the conscious decision to rejoin the world, he still valued his privacy.

As his body had slowly regained its strength, he'd found himself craving music again. In his depressed state, he'd thought that perhaps that part of his life was over. When he'd first come to his new home, he'd furnished it with only the bare necessities to make it liveable. However, the lone extravagant exception had been a piano. He'd purchased it on impulse upon first moving in and yet, when it had arrived, the sight of it had seemed to mock him. Into the corner it had gone, with a cloth coverlet thrown hastily over top of it. There it had sat, silently gathering dust.

When the urge to plunge himself into music had returned to him at last, he'd removed the cover and ran his fingers over the keys. His eyes had closed as he'd revelled in the smooth, cool touch of ivory beneath his skin, reacquainting himself with the contours of the instrument. Then he'd sat down and played. And played and played. The music had seemed to gush out of him in an endless stream, at times fierce and pounding and at others, sweet and lilting. Time had held no meaning as he'd lost himself in the glorious throes of his reawakening. When he'd finally ground to a halt, his chest had been heaving, his arms and fingers aching from their overexertion. Wiping sweat from his brow, he'd sat hunched over limply, grinning like a fool. Sascha's high-pitched whines had reached his ears, reminding him that neither one of them had eaten in many hours. She'd been treated to a fat sausage that night for her patience.

Soon, his own playing at home had not been enough to sustain him. He'd needed to experience live theatre again. A fair number of venues in central London had been his to explore. Having neither horse nor carriage, he'd simply made his way about town on foot. Dressed completely in black, from the tips of his polished boots to the hood of his cloak, he'd blended in with the night. Occasionally, someone would catch sight of the mask and do an almost comical double take, eyes widening with curiosity and fear. But invariably, that person would hurry to cross the street to avoid brushing past him. Erik was quite aware that he struck a commanding figure, especially since regaining the muscles he'd lost. Better food and rigorous exercise had aided in filling out his form nicely. He also supposed it didn't hurt being taller than average and possessing a natural, animalistic grace.

He'd roamed from theatre to theatre, slipping into the backstage areas unseen with laughable ease. Climbing amongst the rafters, he'd enjoyed many performances from his bird's eye view. However, it had taken considerable time and effort to find the one venue to call home. While variety was all well and good, he was at heart, a creature of habit. Although structurally, this particular theatre didn't come close to matching the glittering grandeur of a Paris opera house, it did boast one of the finest and richest sounding orchestras he'd had the pleasure of hearing in a long time. The maestro was infinitely more talented than the nervous buffoon that had directed the music of the Opera Populaire. That fool had bowed to the misguided demands of la Carlotta one too many times, managing to shred any ounce of respect Erik may have held for the man.

While the performances here did include opera, the main staple of this theatre was the orchestra itself. His ears were treated to the genius of Liszt, Mozart, and Beethoven. Concertos, symphonies, and other works. The purity of sound was like a balm on his wounds, allowing them to heal by tiny degrees and giving him a measure of peace.

Then one night, a young woman had invaded his sanctuary in the upper rafters. He'd stiffened with annoyed surprise, withdrawing further into his corner, even though he knew he wasn't visible. On occasion, theatre crewmen came up here to adjust a backdrop or some other maintenance, never knowing an intruder lurked in their midst. But encountering a woman here had been a first. He'd watched her warily, hoping she'd leave. But it had soon become apparent that she intended to remain and take in the performance. Considering the ease in which she'd hoisted herself up and walked about at this considerable height above the stage, he'd surmised that this was her regular seat. From her modest dress, he'd assumed that she couldn't afford a ticket and must know someone within the crew who allowed her this free pass. Very clever.

She possessed a calm, quiet nature and thus, he'd soon learned to ignore her presence. Over the next six months, she'd come on a fairly regular basis, often alone and sometimes with an older man. Their appearances had ceased to bother Eric and in fact, when the last several months had passed with no sign of either one of them, he'd vaguely wondered what had befallen them. Their reappearance tonight had been met with neutral indifference on his part, until he'd noticed the cane in her hand.

The roar of applause roused him out of his contemplative state. Damnation, he'd missed the entire performance due to his useless meandering down memory lane. As the conductor took his bows, Erik remembered that only one piece was in the programme tonight. There was no intermission. The evening was over.

A hum of voices floated up from parting members of both the audience and the orchestra. Erik's gaze returned to the couple that shared his unique box above the stage. They were lingering, appearing to be in no rush to leave.

"…wonderful, wasn't it?" the man was saying.

His female companion smiled. "It certainly was. Though the piano could use some fine-tuning. It sounded a little off."

"Oh? I didn't notice. But your ears have always been sharper than mine."

"Ignore me. A minor quibble that certainly didn't detract from the performance. The pianist had extraordinarily nimble fingers. I'm quite impressed."

"I've been thinking. I could put in some inquiries and try to find someone to assist you. A music student, perhaps. As long as the deadline is met, you could promise payment after completion of the piece."

Her lips pursed thoughtfully as she contemplated the idea. "That might work, yes. But whoever accepts the position would have to agree to anonymity. As you well know."

"I know. A student looking to earn some money might be our best option."

_Very interesting indeed_. Erik had stood and edged as close as he dared to the couple. He was still a good twenty feet away and careful to remain hidden, keeping his head averted so no light could reflect off his mask. After talking a brief moment longer, they too rose to their feet. This time, she trailed after the older man, her left hand skimming across the railing as the other held her cane. Just before she reached the ladder to make her descent, she stopped. Her head turned slowly to the right and stilled, looking over her shoulder.

Erik froze, resisting the urge to back away. _She was gazing straight into his eyes._ It was impossible! He was sure he'd made no sound to reveal his position. He'd memorized each plank of wood that gave even the slightest groan and meticulously avoided them. Even his manner of breathing changed when he chose to remain unseen, becoming so shallow that most men would faint from lack of air. In addition to his absolute certainty that he remained cloaked in darkness, there was the small matter of her blindness. Even if that was some sort of ruse on her part, he could not fathom that any normal human being would be able to see him standing there.

And yet, she continued to seemingly regard him, a pensive frown marring her smooth brow.

"Mellie? Is something wrong?" the male voice whispered from below. He'd already descended to the next level down and although most everyone had departed from the stage, he had the good sense to keep his tone low.

The sound of his voice apparently snapped her out of her trance. "I'm coming." She quickly spun on her heel and soon disappeared from sight.

Though his tensed muscles relaxed somewhat, Erik didn't dare expel even a breath of a sigh. The moment of their locked gaze had been eerie and disconcerting. So her name was Mellie.

_A fond nickname, perhaps. _

He had no doubt they would soon meet again.

* * *

A/N: The name of 'Sascha' is a little tribute to Kay's 'Phantom', though my Erik won't have the same background as her novel. It will be a combination of the sources I mentioned in the A/N of the Prologue as well as my own imagination.

I'm so happy that I've had a few reviews! I must admit I would have been sad if no one had responded. Many thanks go out to:

Demonia666: To answer your question, no, she won't be a singer as well. But thank you for the compliment on writing style.

elvinscarf: I'm hoping you meant "kool" in your review and not "lol". LOL!

cherioxxx: Hope you continue to read and that it holds your interest.


	3. Ch 2: Man And Mystery

In her head, Melodie silently counted to five as the stubborn child before her steadfastly refused to do as she asked. She imagined the girl was glaring at her fiercely, lips pouting and arms crossed belligerently across her chest.

"I don't want to practice those stupid scales! I hate them!"

Melodie spoke with quiet authority, showing no hint of her mild irritation. "I know you do. But they help to warm up your fingers so you can play better. Just five minutes on your scales, then we'll work on the piece you'll be playing at your recital."

"No."

She decided to try a different approach. "Grace, do you know why your mother insists you eat your vegetables at dinner?"

There was a pause, as if the girl was thrown off guard or truly contemplating the question. When she finally replied, the petulance in her tone was replaced by uncertainty. "Because they're good for me?"

Melodie nodded. "That's right. They're good for you, even if you don't really understand why. I know you trust your mother and I ask for you to trust me when it comes to music. No one likes to practice their scales. Not even me."

"You don't?"

"No, I don't. But I know they're good for me, so I do it. Just as you should."

A moment later, the sound of the C major scale reached her ears and she suppressed a smile. Grace Anniston was a stubborn, wilful girl of twelve. She had none of the sunny disposition of Rebecca, Melodie's former pupil. But she truly did love to play the piano, with the exception of those boring repetitive scales. Melodie was not about to complain about the challenge of dealing with the girl's all too frequent snarly moods. She was well aware of how fortunate her current circumstances were.

March was soon coming to a close. It had been a little over four months since she'd left the Wentworth home. That night, when she had burst into tears and sought the comfort of Henry's fathering arms, she'd almost withheld telling him of David's assault on her. She'd known that Henry had always held a soft spot for David, having watched him grow up since birth. Not to say that he wasn't well aware of the man's faults, chief among them drinking and womanizing. But unlike Melodie, he'd never witnessed David's well-concealed dark side.

She'd also felt strangely embarrassed and ashamed about the incident. Most women her age were married and raising a family. While she had no burning desire to be wed, she sometimes wondered what it would be like to have a proper suitor. Someone who was funny and charming, that she could share her time with. She'd never even been kissed before. And she refused to call David's abominable attack on her mouth her first kiss. The thought revolted her.

But in the end, when Henry had pressed her to reveal what had happened, she'd blurted out the truth. He'd been furious, of course, ready to charge upstairs and throttle the man. She'd literally had to block the door, gripping the frame and refusing to budge until he'd calmed down. His next thought had been to go to Mr. Wentworth but she'd not allowed that either. Urging him to sit down, they'd ended up having a discussion long into the night. Various options had been put forth and discarded until finally, she'd made her decision. She would strike out on her own somehow and attempt to find some independence. Having worked for several families before the Wentworths, Henry had some connections and thought a placement for her as a governess or music tutor might be possible. While the thought of her leaving after all these years had been heartbreaking for him, he'd agreed that she was no longer safe there. Each time she turned a corner, she'd be afraid of finding David lying in wait for her.

Ultimately, it had been Albert Wentworth who had provided the lead to her current employment. The next morning, praying that David had not already spoken to his parents, she'd gone directly to Albert. She'd bluntly told him that she'd been deceiving him and everyone else in his household for more than five years. News of her blindness had shocked him but after recovering from the surprise, he'd offered to allow her to stay. He truly was a kind man and had she received that same offer the previous morning, she would have been thrilled. Shaking her head, she'd stated that she needed to make a fresh start somewhere. That no one in the staff would trust her again. And he hadn't argued against her, for he'd also known it to be true.

That evening, Albert had called her into his study. He knew of a family who was seeking a music teacher for their talented, but strong-willed daughter. The last one had apparently quit after only two weeks. He'd been planning to tell Melodie about the position anyway, but now, circumstances had changed. On his recommendation, they'd invited her to stay in their home. Room and board would be free of charge in exchange for her lessons and perhaps some other minor duties. She'd been speechless at this turn of events and could never thank him enough.

Not having many belongings, she'd been able to make the transition the next day. Goodbyes with the servants on staff had been uncomfortable at best. She'd seen no sign of David or Mrs. Wentworth. Only Rebecca had been tearful and clung to her skirt, pleading for her to stay.

When Melodie had gone to the attic to retrieve her compositions, she'd opened the lid of the chest and one minute later, stared blankly into space for the longest time, numb with shock. For it had been emptied completely, containing nothing but air and a single item. As her hand had swept along the smoothness of the inner wood, she hadn't been able to comprehend what her touch was telling her. Her fingers had fluttered madly until she'd finally brushed against something odd. Once she'd grasped it in her palm, she'd realized it was her pen. Bringing it up to her nose, she'd seen the dull, red-brown stain on the metal nib. Dried blood. David's blood.

He had either stolen or most likely destroyed her so-called scribbles. The entire collection amassed from a lifetime of work was gone. What had he yelled before she'd fled? _"You'll pay for this." _Well, he'd certainly taken his revenge in the most hurtful of ways. If she had the time and inclination, she could most likely recreate much of the work. But her oldest pieces from early childhood could never be replaced.

Melodie became aware that the rhythmic sound of the ascending and descending notes had ceased. "Why have you stopped?" she asked.

"Because you're not listening," came the snappish reply.

Properly chastised, she inclined her head slightly. "You're right. I apologize. Let's start on the Chopin now."

Two hours later, the morning lesson was complete. They would have a shorter session later in the afternoon. Grace went up to her bedchamber and Melodie wandered into the kitchen to see if she could be of any assistance. While her presence in that area of the Wentworth household had been rather unwelcome and viewed more of an interference, she'd become friendly with the head cook here. Isabel could often be sharp tongued but the sting of her words hid a soft heart. She'd taken Melodie under her wing immediately, always fussing that she didn't eat enough. During her second week at the Anniston's home, Melodie had found Isabel railing at her young kitchen maid one morning. The girl had returned from the market with a whole basket of fish that was far from fresh. Having explored much of the area around her new home already, including the nearby market, Melodie had volunteered to fetch a new batch more to Isabel's liking. Though initially doubtful that she could be capable of fulfilling this task, Isabel had agreed to it. And she'd been properly impressed when Melodie had returned with a new basketful of fish so fresh, they seemed about to leap out.

There was no trick to it, really. She simply possessed a keener nose than most and by inspecting closely, she was able to discern the clarity of the fish's eyes. But since that day, she'd often accompanied Isabel on her market rounds.

The warm, inviting scent of baking bread wafted to her nose as she reached the busy hub of activity. "Can I be of any help today?" she called out, steering herself towards the staccato sound of a chopping knife.

The sound halted for a moment and she pictured Isabel with the knife held mid-air as she paused to consider. "No, dear, I think we're fine."

"I'll go out for a walk, then. Are you sure there's nothing I can get for you on my way back?"

Another short pause before Isabel replied, "Well, if it isn't too much trouble, I could use three more eggs."

"Consider it done," Melodie said cheerfully. Retrieving the basket, she stepped out the door, breathing in deeply. It was a lovely morning for early spring. She had no need for even a wrap. The rays of the sun warmed her skin and cast a yellow tinted glow across her vision. Before letting herself through the gate at the front of the house, she reached into the deep pocket of her skirt. A pen, a small well of ink and folded sheets of paper were removed and placed in the basket. There was a quiet nook of a park that she had discovered soon after moving here. She'd spent many hours there on a secluded bench, curled up and jotting down music that she could clearly hear in her head. The notes would later be tested on the piano of course, after which adjustments would need to be made. But if she could avoid it, she didn't like to be chained to the piano when she was composing. She'd learned her creative muses were much better served when she could feel the breeze on her face and birds happily chirping in the trees.

However, her damnable eyes had been failing her for many weeks now. The headaches had been mild to start. Only a pesky throbbing that she could ignore. But recently, if she pushed herself to more than half an hour of writing, the pain would pound behind her eyes until she felt nausea curling in her stomach.

A shout of voices from behind startled her and she stopped, turning towards the commotion.

"Watch out! Runaway horse! Get away!"

Indeed, she could hear the panicked whinny of the animal and the clattering hooves of a fast gallop. The sound was getting louder by the second and seemed to be heading straight towards her. Staring into the distance, she blinked furiously but of course could see nothing beyond the haze that clouded her gaze. Even as she felt several bodies pushing past her, shrieking with fear, she stood rooted to the spot, unsure of which way to turn.

_Run! _Her mind screamed at her. But which way? _Away from the wild horse that's going to kill you, you fool!_ At last, the glue fell away from her shoes and she pivoted to her right, starting to run from the thunderous noise that was almost upon her.

Something clamped onto her arm and she staggered off balance, gasping as she was yanked backwards so forcefully, she thought her arm would pull out of its socket. The momentum spun her around and she was vaguely aware that her cane and basket had flown out of her hands. The entire length of her body collided face first into a solid wall. She gave a muffled grunt on impact, her nose bent against soft, black cloth that smelled clean and spicy. Something was wrong here. Only then did she become aware of a large hand pressed tightly to her back. The strongly built wall she'd been thrown against was one of a man. One of her own hands laid flat against his chest and the other crept up of its own accord, just to see how high his form extended. When it finally reached the slope of his shoulder, she almost expelled a sigh of relief, noting that he was very tall but not some sort of abnormal giant.

Although time seemed to have slowed and stretched into an impossibly long moment, only a few drawn out seconds had actually passed since she'd first felt the grip on her arm. It was terribly improper to be draped so intimately against a complete stranger. Before the rising flush of heat could actually reach her cheeks, she found herself abruptly released from his embrace.

"Whoa, there. Steady boy. That's it, nice and easy."

The deep voice was low and musical, almost a purr in the man's throat. As he continued to speak in soothing tones, the animal's keening squeals gentled to snorts of hot breath. Even the clopping sound of hooves against cobblestone stilled as the horse responded to the man's calming nature.

"Thank God! Thank God you was 'ere, guv!" exclaimed an out of breath sounding man. "That damned 'orse could've killed…uh…em…well."

Melodie frowned, totally at a loss for what was happening right in front of her. The apparent owner of the horse had gone from gushing gratitude to a strange, hesitant stammering and now nothing, as if he'd been stunned into silence.

"What's going on?" she asked abruptly, taking a brave foot forward. She felt lost without her cane and with nothing to hold, she ended up wringing her hands together nervously.

"N-nothin', miss. The guv 'ere saved your life. This idiot 'orse of mine was rearin' up on 'is legs and you were right in 'is way. 'e woulda crushed you like a twig, 'e would. What were you thinkin', runnin' at 'im like that, eh?"

It was her turn to stammer and she was sure the blush was now high on her cheekbones. "Well, I…I suppose I…"

"She is safe. That's all that is important," interrupted the smooth voice of her saviour. "You need to take better care of this horse. His left hind leg is lame and the bit is entirely too tight in his mouth."

Only when she heard the retreating steps of the animal did she know the man must have turned away. He hadn't responded to that last remark, so she imagined it hadn't pleased him. "Are you hurt, mademoiselle?"

_Mademoiselle? Oh, he was speaking to her._ Looking up, she viewed him as a large darkened shadow that blotted out the sun. "No, I'm fine."

"I apologize for pulling you back so roughly. I had to react quickly."

"Please, no apologies are necessary. I cannot thank you enough. You've saved my life."

"It was nothing, I assure you, but my pleasure all the same."

She found herself oddly lulled by his voice, just as the horse had been. The trace of accent intrigued her also, for she wasn't sure if it was French or perhaps some other foreign country. She hadn't realized her hands still tightly clasped each other until two familiar objects were nudged against them – her cane and basket.

Hooking the handle of the basket over her arm, she clutched her trusty stick in a death's grip. Although she'd only had it for the last four months, she'd come to depend on it so highly; it was now a natural extension of her arm. "Oh, thank you! I thought the cane might have broken."

"You're welcome. Is there somewhere I might accompany you? You still look shaken."

"Do I?" It was true, her nerves were still rattled, though she'd hoped it wouldn't be so obvious. She'd never been able to hide her emotions well. "Perhaps just to the park, then. It's a little further ahead."

"May I offer you my arm?"

She hesitated, chewing on her inner lip. Before the cane, she'd allowed Henry to guide her when they'd travelled in unfamiliar areas, linking her arm through his. But now, she'd come to take pride in her newfound independence and quite frankly, wasn't used to a man's touch. This wasn't as simple as taking the hand of a coachman when stepping up into a carriage. It was almost humorous that other than Henry, she'd been in the arms of a male only twice and against her will on both counts. Since the last crushing embrace had resulted from being pulled out of harm's way, however, the perpetrator had already been forgiven. "My apologies if I've offended you," he murmured, his tone cool when she took much too long in answering.

If she'd physically been capable of it, she would have kicked herself for being so rude. "You haven't. Please, forgive me. I'm simply accustomed to my independence." She tried to smile but feared it was slightly wobbly. "I would be pleased to take your arm."

They walked in silence and while she searched for something to say, she seemed to be at a loss. Thankfully, they reached the park very quickly. Certainly at a faster pace than she dared on her own. She halted on the pathway and pointed off to the right. "Do you see the bench over there? It should be almost hidden between some trees."

"Yes, I see it."

"That's my bench. I'm quite fine from here, sir. I'm sure you have better things to do."

"Not today." He stepped forward and she automatically followed, close to his side. "I see you're a composer," he remarked.

She didn't bother hiding her shock. "How did you know?"

"I couldn't help noticing the contents of your basket. They'd spilled out onto the road. Don't worry, everything is intact," he added hastily. "Luckily, the papers had remained inside or they would have blown away."

"Very astute of you," she commented softly.

"I also took a moment to admire your pen. Do you find it much improvement over the quill?"

This was much safer territory to converse on. "Oh yes," she said, with genuine enthusiasm. "It writes so much more smoothly and with greater precision. And one doesn't have to dip into the well as often so it's more efficient. I would never go back to the quill."

"That sounds marvellous indeed. I shall have to look into procuring one for myself. Here we are." Coming to a stop, he cupped her elbow and guided her to the wrought iron bench. "Do you mind if I join you?" he asked, just as she settled onto the seat.

He managed to fluster her yet again. "I…I suppose not," she found herself replying, though her acquiescence surprised her. She didn't know this man. Should she really be speaking with him alone? She felt the slight shift in the bench as his weight sank down, though he kept a modest distance from her.

"I'm somewhat of a composer myself," he stated. "And I must admit my curiosity. Being blind, how do you manage to write?"

She wasn't used to discussing such things with anyone but since he'd already learned some of the truth of her composing, she supposed it wouldn't hurt to reveal more. "I'm not completely blind. I can distinguish light and colour but the world around me is a blur of distorted shapes. However, from a distance of several inches, I can see quite well. That is how I write. But my vision is worsening, I'm afraid. If it continues to degrade as it has these last few months, it won't be long before even the distance of a few inches will become blurry."

"I see." Even in those two words, his tone expressed sympathy. "I can't imagine how difficult that must be for you. I've never come across a female composer before. What an accomplishment for you."

She wasn't sure if that was meant to be a compliment or not but decided it would be wise to downplay her role. "Hardly. It's simply a hobby."

There was a pause before he spoke his next words, as if he chose them very carefully. "Perhaps you should reconsider placing such a strain on your eyes for the sake of a mere hobby."

Oh, how she ached to tell him that she had been commissioned to compose a piece for a prominent member of London society. It wasn't anything on a grand scale but it had been as a result of someone finally recognizing her talent. There was also the fact that false pretenses were involved, but she didn't like to dwell on that aspect. "May I take a look at what you're working on?" he asked.

Her first reaction was to refuse but she batted that response back down. He'd mentioned that he also composed music. Perhaps it wouldn't hurt to get his opinion. "Please do," she said primly.

As he rummaged in her basket and she heard the crinkling of paper as the sheets were unfolded, her pulse quickened just a touch. Why should this stranger's opinion matter to her? Even if he hated the work, it shouldn't upset her in the least. Though she had no idea of his age, she guessed that perhaps he was a young music student. Music student…the conversation she'd had with Henry last night echoed in her brain. Could she possibly ask this man to help her?

Minutes ticked by ever so slowly. A sudden gust of wind caressed her face and she brushed strands of hair from her eyes. One hand went to the ribbon at the back of her neck. It was coming loose but she didn't have the patience to retie it. Afraid of losing it, she discreetly pulled it off completely and tucked it into her pocket. Every so often, the rustling of paper could be heard as he perused the next page. This wasn't taking a simple "look" at her work. He was examining every note and phrase. She sat for so long that she could have sworn she saw the shift of the sun in the sky; the changing shadows of trees on the ground.

At last, she heard his voice. But to her utter annoyance, he only muttered unintelligibly, under his breath. "I beg your pardon?" she had to ask.

"This is good. It's very good."

She heard a strangeness in his tone, as if he was reluctant to give her praise. He then went on to add, "There is one overly ambitious section for the harp that you might want to tame. And a particular run of notes where the violin and cello will clash in a most unflattering way. Other than that, I can find no fault."

Despite her earlier reasoning that it might be helpful to hear his opinion, she found herself bristling. He possessed an arrogance that no mere student would yet have. "What is your musical background?" she inquired, almost wincing at the sharpness of her tone. She made her irritation entirely too obvious.

"I've been composing almost all my life, though I've only had one of my operas performed to date. It was at a small theatre in Paris so I'm sure it would not be known to you."

Surprise arched her eyebrows. "But your opera was actually performed?"

"Yes."

"Well, that's…that's impressive." So he couldn't be a student after all. This was becoming most intriguing.

"I would like to offer my services to you."

"Excuse me?"

"Your writing. It can't be good to strain your eyes so much. It's probably aiding the deterioration of your vision. If you would allow me, I could help you with the writing of the notes."

She was beyond flabbergasted now. She'd never expected such an offer to be dropped into her lap. He continued on before she had a chance to respond. "No need to make your decision right now. Think it over and should you agree, come to this bench the same time tomorrow. Would that be agreeable?"

There seemed to be no reason to refuse. "All right."

"Good."

He got to his feet and before he could fade away completely from her sight, she came to her senses. "Wait! What is your name?"

"It's Erik."

How odd and yet fitting that he should only reveal his given name. "I'm Melodie."

She watched as his shadowed form grew distant and disappeared, leaving her in the midst of her solitary and hazy world. The papers had been refolded neatly and returned to her basket. Pulling them out, she quickly rifled through the sheets until she came to one particular passage. Running the melodies through her head, her brow wrinkled thoughtfully. She hated to admit it, but he was right. In fact, she'd had a subconscious doubt about that small section all along. The harmonics between the violin and cello as she'd written them would not blend well together. For him to have picked up on this flaw while glancing it over for the first time was nothing short of remarkable.

There was no point in staying any longer. Nothing else would be written this morning. She walked home as if in a fog, both troubled and excited by her meeting with this mysterious stranger. Actually, he was a stranger no longer, for she knew his name. Erik.

And tomorrow, she had an appointment to keep.

* * *

A/N: I'm having a lovely time writing this story. Out of all the fanfics I've written, I think this one might become my own favourite. Thank you to those who take the time to leave their reviews. To quote from the musical, "You have truly made my night!"

Maggie: So many questions. LOL! I promise, they will be answered in the next couple of chapters. Mellie didn't fall off the rafters but Erik did save her life so you got it half right. Bravo!

XxXGoddessXofXdeadXloveXxx: Goodness, that's quite the penname! I'm glad you like the story so far and I hope you continue to read. Thanks very much for your review.


	4. Ch 3: Talking In Riddles

There was no real need of a fire but Erik enjoyed the comforting warmth. He sat by the hearth, listening to the crackling flames, his stomach full from dinner, his mask and wig tossed on the nearby table. His mood was rather dark and introspective this evening. For the second time in his existence, he'd invited a woman into his life. Mind you, this new woman hadn't yet accepted his proposition. But he had the strong feeling that she would and his instincts were rarely wrong. He had to constantly remind himself that he was doing this for purely selfish reasons. To put it plainly, he needed the money.

He wasn't in dire straits yet but funds were being continually diminished with no source to replenish it. He could easily fall into his means of income from his younger days - picking the rich, well-padded pockets of the wealthy or travelling with fairs throughout Europe, displaying his unique and astonishing vocals skills and sleight of hand. He could do those things, yes. But he refused. He wasn't about to discard his chance to lead a normal life, or at least as close to normal as he could manage. Normal did not include base thievery or putting himself on display in all his hideous glory so people could gawk and swoon. And while he supposed his stealthy presence in the theatre rafters wouldn't be regarded as normal by most, he knew of one other who might possibly understand...Melodie.

She hadn't yet confessed her commission to him but he had no doubt that she would. Payment for his services in assisting her would then be rendered and he'd be on his way. Perhaps he could also attempt to sell his own compositions somehow. Surely there were people who would overlook his…disfigurement, in light of the immense talent he possessed?

Erik pressed a weary hand to the right side of his face. The side that he was forever cursed with. Who could ever overlook this monstrosity?

Sascha lifted a paw to his knee and rested her chin upon it, gazing up at him adoringly. Erik almost chuckled at the uncanny timing, stroking the soft fur behind her ears. "Yes, I know you can, Sascha." At the sound of her name, she swished her tail with delight. He could have sworn she even smiled. "Since the girl is blind, perhaps she won't mind either?"

_Not a girl. A woman._ Though petite and small boned, her well-proportioned curves had been evident, even for the few seconds he'd held her. But later, as he'd viewed her on the bench with her hair loose and flowing, her face clean and shining, she'd looked impossibly young and fresh.

The manner of their meeting today had been entirely unintentional. The previous night, he had followed her home from the theatre. His curiosity had been aroused and finding her place of residence had seemed as good a starting point as any in learning more about her. Considering the rather other-worldly way in which she'd seemed to sense his presence in the rafters, he'd been sure to stay back a considerable distance. His footsteps had fallen as silently as a cat whilst stalking its prey. He'd been mildly surprised when her male companion had left her at the front gate of the town house, bidding her goodnight with a fatherly kiss on the cheek. He'd assumed they would reside in the same household. But as he had expected from her choice of seating at the theatre, she'd gone around to the back of the house, rather than enter the front door.

This morning, it had been a quest for a few bottles of wine that had lured him out of seclusion. There was a particular shop that in fact, happened to be located near the residence of his new friend. He'd been on his way there when he'd spied her walking. With no particular plan in mind, he'd found himself trailing after her once more. Even with her use of the cane, he had the silly notion in his head that she couldn't truly be blind. Not if she was capable of writing compositions. And certainly not when she'd been staring at him with such uncanny directness in the dark. Perhaps she used the ruse of a disability to gain sympathy. Or at the very least, she could not be completely blind. It turned out he was right in that respect. But in the face of impending disaster in one runaway horse, she'd been as helpless and defenseless as a newborn babe.

The sight of the massive, black stallion charging at full speed towards her had been cause for concern. But surely, she had heard the shout of warning, if not the fearsome, powerful hooves that were headed her way. When she'd appeared to freeze in place, looking towards the sound but utterly confused and immobile, his slight concern had grown to a prickling fear. Though he'd been standing a good distance away, he'd found himself moving towards her. She meant nothing to him, yet he hadn't been willing to stand idly by and watch her be trodden to death. Men and women had scattered in all directions, cursing and screaming. They had even run past her, practically knocking her over in their haste to get by, but none had reached out to pull her to safety. Anger had swelled in him with a rising flood. These heartless ninnies were so concerned with their own precious necks, they wouldn't lift a finger to even attempt to save a young woman's life.

When the horse had reared up on its hind legs, his heart had leapt into his throat. She'd actually _turned into_ the inevitable downward thrust of those deadly, flailing hooves. At the last moment, he'd put on a burst of almost inhuman speed to grab her by the arm and wrench her backwards, safe into the circle of his arms. Stupid, foolish woman! He'd wanted to shake her mercilessly but instead, had thrust her aside to deal with the wild-eyed horse. The attention he'd focused on the animal had given him time to calm himself into a more reasonable state. The near death experience had been no fault of hers, after all. And obviously, her lack of vision was very real.

Upon retrieving her basket from the street, he'd spotted her composition inside. Insatiable curiosity had pervaded once more. He'd been prepared to find a piece of work that ranged anywhere from bad to passable. By no means had he expected anything close to the beauty that lurked in her music. He had told her it was 'good, very good'. But in actual fact, it had been damned brilliant. Besides the monetary reward in assisting her, he suspected he would find some real pleasure in the development of her work. Even her name was ironically well suited. It was now just the small matter of whether or not she would appear at the bench in the park tomorrow morning.

He would be thoroughly displeased if his plans were disrupted.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

What a change a day could make. Yesterday had been bright and gloriously warm. Today, the dampness chilled her bones and made her want to burrow deeper into her cloak. There was no golden glow in the sky this morning. Her surroundings were grey, dull and wet.

With umbrella in one hand and her trusty cane in the other, Melodie made her way to the park at a leisurely pace. Turning at the entranceway, she passed the fountain and slowed as she neared the familiar clump of trees. Though she heard nothing but the rhythmic patter of rain against the umbrella doming her head, something made her pause. The tiny hairs on the back of her neck stood at attention as she swivelled around. She had the distinct and uneasy feeling of being watched. The same sensation had nearly overwhelmed her in the rafters of the theatre two nights ago. Although she tried to scold herself for her silliness, as she had that night, it didn't prevent the shiver that coursed through her. There could be a simple explanation, of course.

"Erik?" she called out hoarsely. She waited with bated breath.

"I'm here," came the reply, after a lengthy pause.

The close proximity of the voice made her jump. He was standing right in front of her but she had not heard any sign of motion. Was it possible he had also been hidden in the shadows of the rafters that night? As quickly as the notion came to her, she discarded it with disdain. Her imagination sometimes stretched beyond reasonable borders. She had to gather her wits and remember why she was here. The wisdom of the act was already questionable enough.

"You move very quietly," she remarked.

"I take your coming here as acceptance of my proposal?"

"And you're very direct as well. Perhaps we could take shelter somewhere to discuss this more thoroughly. There is a lovely tearoom not far from here. In fact, it's right around the spot where we first met." When this garnered no reaction from him, she charmingly prodded with a smile, "Remember? When you saved my life."

"Are you suddenly in the mood for tea or implying that you would rather conduct our meeting in a more public place?"

There was an intentional bite to his voice that wiped the smile from her face. "We _are_ in a public place," she pointed out, matching his acrid tone.

"True. But I'm obliged to reveal the fact that not another soul is nearby. Not many people are fond of walking through the park in the rain, it seems. And we're quite well hidden amongst these trees."

Was he deliberately trying to frighten her? What possible reason could he have for baiting her this way? "I'm merely suggesting that we conduct our meeting in a place where we might dry off. And yes, a spot of tea wouldn't be such a bad idea either."

"I've never liked tea," he snapped. "Can we not talk about this here? A simple yes or no will suffice."

"But it's not that simple," she blurted out. "I'm sure you made your offer out of kindness or sympathy for my plight, but there are details you should be aware of. It will take some time to explain things to you."

He was silent for so long, she began to wonder if he had lost his capability of speech. This was indeed, the strangest meeting she'd ever had.

When he spoke at last, he sounded brisk and business-like. "Very well. But I insist on a location of my choosing. It will be dry but I must warn you, we will be quite alone. However, I assure you, mademoiselle, you have nothing to fear from me."

And stranger still. Though niggling little bolts of warning jabbed at her brain, she found herself rationalizing out loud. "Well, I would hardly think you'd take the trouble to save my life and then murder me the next day. So please, lead the way."

As she took a step forward, she must have inadvertently tilted up the umbrella. A gentle hand stilled her wrist and she found the handle plucked from her grasp. He guided that same wrist through the crook of his arm.

"Allow me. I would prefer not to be stabbed in the eye. It wouldn't do much good for both of us to be blind."

He dared to make a joke about blindness? Such nerve!

And to her great surprise, she laughed.

* * *

A/N: This chapter is a little short, I know. The next one will be longer. Thanks for the reviews (blows kisses to all). I'm really thrilled that you all seem to like Melodie as much as I do.

XxXGoddessXofXdeadXloveXxx: I liked your little 'Erik cheer'. You got a bit more Erik in this chapter.

MagickAlianne: Well, I have a few more reviews now. I admit to being a little disappointed that I haven't received more as well, but I was surprised at how many POTO fics there are on this site. Unless you update on almost a daily basis, it just gets lost and buried in the mix. But that's all right, I know a few of you are reading so it's enough to keep me going. Thanks so much for all the compliments.

judesan: I'm so glad you found my fic and are enjoying it. Hope you keep reading.

Rebel-Ravenclaw: Ah, a Harry Potter fan perhaps:-) Aren't you lucky, you didn't have to wait very long for an update! That's lovely that you describe Melodie as being 'elegant'. Thank you.


	5. Ch 4: Our Strange Duet

They walked without speaking, just as they had the previous day. At first, Melodie wondered if she should try to make conversation. But Erik didn't seem the type to engage in small talk. That suited her just fine, actually. She would choose silence over mindless chatter any day.

Since he was guiding her, she took no notice of direction or landmarks. When at last he led her around to the back of a building, she realized they'd reached their destination. He wordlessly handed the umbrella to her and after a brief moment, she heard the creak of a door opening. Shaking out the umbrella, she hooked it over her arm and stepped inside. In the semi-darkness, she gazed around, seeing a play of shadows and light filtering through the windows. "Where are we?" she asked, feeling a sense of unease. "I feel this place is very familiar."

"It is," he responded. "Just follow me a little further and I'll explain."

As she took his arm again and they wound through corridors, the sound of their footsteps echoed hollowly. She was certain that she'd been here before but something seemed odd. As they turned down another hall, the revelation struck her with resounding clarity and she halted in her tracks, tearing her arm from his. "We're in the theatre. The Empire theatre. I'm not taking another step until you explain yourself." The area backstage was all too familiar to her but she'd never been here during the day. In the evening, it was always crowded with people and brimming with activity. The absolute stillness now had been the strange element that had thrown her senses off balance.

"I ask for your indulgence just a moment longer. Then we'll sit down and talk." He was using his silken, coaxing tone again. It was very hard to refuse that voice.

The logical half of her mind was telling her to make her escape now and return home. To forget that she had ever met this enigma of a man. The curious half of her urged her forward, lulling herself into believing that it wouldn't hurt to talk with him and hear his explanation. What was that saying about curiosity and cats?

In answer, she held out her hand and allowed him to continue leading the way. At one point, he stopped and said, "Wait here." Then he was gone and all she could do was stand there, her thoughts starting to spin fiercely. Perhaps he worked here. Maybe he was a member of the orchestra. Yes, that must be it. That would explain his musical skills and besides, how else would he have gotten in? He certainly hadn't broken the door down. He'd entered with the ease of someone with a proper key. Her nerves settled and she felt better almost immediately. That made perfect sense.

In no time at all, he returned and guided her through another doorway. With a whoosh of sound, several gas flames shot to life in the corner of her vision. Yellow and orange sparkles of light danced before her. Only then did she realize where they were standing. He had lit a few of the lamps that dotted across the front of the stage. With a subtle touch to her elbow, he next led her to a familiar object.

"You can sit here. I'll find a chair. May I take your cloak?" he inquired. Though he spoke quietly, his voice resonated slightly in the cavernous space of the empty theatre.

She shrugged out of the damp cloth. "Thank you," she murmured. Cane and umbrella were also set aside before she took her seat on the piano bench. After a brief shuffling of sound, he sat down on a chair next to her.

He spoke first. "So it seems we both have much explaining to do. Since you wanted to engage in a thorough discussion, perhaps you could start."

"All right," she agreed, folding her hands in her lap. She tried to keep them still, but found her fingers curling and intertwining as she talked. "I wasn't entirely truthful with you yesterday. Yes, composing has always been a hobby of mine but just recently, I was able to secure a commission. It was actually Henry, my…a dear friend of mine, that made it possible. I have the piece completed up here." She tapped at her temple with an index finger. "Well, almost complete. But with my eyes, I'm struggling to get it down on paper. This is where you could help me and of course, I would pay you. Normally, I would give you credit as having assisted me but in this case, you would remain anonymous."

"And why is that?" he asked.

"I'm afraid I was granted this commission under false pretenses. Henry had been trying for some time to generate interest in my work but no one wanted to hire a woman. Then, two months ago, he found someone who liked samples of what I had written. When asked the identity of the composer, he gave the name of Michael Blythe."

Erik sounded puzzled. "I'm not quite sure I…"

"It's me," she interrupted. "Michael Blythe doesn't exist. It's just a name Henry created off the top of his head. It was the only way to actually sell my work."

When Erik roared with sudden laughter, she flinched at the unexpected sound. "I'm glad you find this so amusing," she stated dryly.

He soon settled down to a softer chuckle. "Forgive me. But you've certainly managed to surprise me."

"I take it this deception doesn't bother you?"

"Not in the least."

She felt some relief at having unburdened her secret. "So I've made my confession. Now I would like you to explain why you've brought me here. I've already made the assumption that you must work here."

"That assumption would be false."

"You're not a member of the orchestra?"

"No."

Frowning, she made her confusion obvious. "I don't understand. Then how did you get in? You obviously know your way around the back corridors."

"Yes. We appear to have much more in common than you realize, mademoiselle. I have my ways of letting myself in and making myself at home in the rafters. It's the only way I can take in the performance. Just as you do."

Tingles of energy seemed to race through her nerves, making her tense. "How could you know that?" she asked in a strangled whisper.

"I think you already know the answer."

"That was you, that night, watching me from the shadows. I knew something or someone was there. I couldn't see you but I…I felt you." She peered through the fog of her vision now but saw nothing in this dim light. But he was most certainly there, sitting and staring. Her mouth felt dry, her pulse starting to race with an intensity that made her shiver. "What game are you playing? You miraculously save my life and then you offer to help me compose. Now you've brought me here, broken in somehow, to…to…well, I don't know what. But I don't want any part of this."

She hadn't even realized she'd gotten to her feet but she must have. She'd unconsciously stepped backwards and now held out a hand to steady herself, feeling the smooth surface of the piano beneath her palm.

When he spoke, she gasped, unable to comprehend what he was saying. She was too unnerved by the fact that he could move so swiftly and silently. Though he hadn't touched her, she was aware that he was looming over her, only inches away. "What did you say?" she asked weakly.

He repeated himself patiently, as though dealing with a small child. "I've told you already, you have nothing to fear from me. Yes, that was I in the rafters that night. I have my reasons for hiding in the shadows. The same reasons have led us here for this little meeting. To have gone to a tearoom, as you suggested, is impossible. If you look at me more closely, you'll see why."

She lifted her eyes upwards, seeing nothing but the vague outline of his head. "You're too tall. If you could incline your head…"

As if ensnared in the web of in a dream, she watched with fascination as his face slowly became discernible. Her breath caught in her throat as she stared into his eyes for the first time. Beautiful gray-green irises gazed back at her with steady deliberation. His eyes held a cool appraisal and she rather felt that as she studied him, he was judging her as well. Only after several heartbeats did her gaze slide to the pristine white mask that covered half of his face. Strange that it was not the first thing that had captured her attention. It served to hide a deformity, perhaps. She now thought it wise not to make any assumptions where this man was concerned. She next regarded the full curve of his lips and strong jaw before meeting his eyes again. It was impossible for her to view anything with absolute clarity and sharpness but even she could see the attractiveness of his features. He was also older than she had imagined. And now he was waiting for her reaction.

"I don't suppose many masked men patronize tearooms, so you would garner some unwanted attention. I understand now why you'd desire a more private meeting place."

The handsome face receded from her view as he drew back his head. But no matter, it was indelibly etched in her mind now.

She began to try to stitch the details together so she could comprehend everything thus far. "So what happened yesterday with the horse…it was just coincidence you happened to be there?"

"Yes."

"And what of your offer to help me write? At the time, you had no idea of the commission." Her eyes narrowed as a sudden suspicion came upon her. "Unless you overheard Henry and I talking in the rafters."

His lack of response spoke volumes but she wanted to hear him say it. "Well?" she pressed.

"You've told me that I am astute. I return the compliment." He sounded rather irked that she had found him out. "Payment for helping you is a factor. I don't deny it. But there are other, intangible rewards."

"Such as?"

"Play for me."

"What?"

She stiffened when he grasped her shoulders but his touch was gentle. As if bending to his will, she found herself seated at the piano, her hands lifted to the keys. His head had lowered next to hers but this time, she dared not look at him.

A warm breath caressed her ear as he spoke. "I want you to play." He paused, softening the demand. "I ask you to play."

And so she did. She had never played a grand piano before. The richness of sound was glorious and thrilling. When she'd begun, she hadn't put any thought into choosing which piece to play. Her fingers had simply started to move of their own accord. Only when she'd realized her hands had stilled, had she recognized the music. It was her unfinished commission.

Glancing up, she felt him slide next to her on the bench. She automatically started to rise but he laid one hand on her arm, silently asking that she stay. Sinking back down, she sat absolutely still, entranced by the notes that surrounded her. They glided through the air and washed over her skin, seeming to flow through her as well as around her. The music was hauntingly beautiful but filled with such aching sorrow, tears welled in her eyes. When the last singular note was played, it faded into the air, as if drawing its final breath.

They sat for some time in hushed silence. Aware that something extraordinary had passed between them, she almost feared that speaking aloud would disintegrate the magical moment. But at last, she couldn't contain her curiosity. "Did you write that?" she asked.

"Yes."

"It was breathtaking."

He did not respond to her comment. She gave her head a slight shake, forcing herself to emerge from this queer trance and return to reality. "You're obviously more than 'somewhat of a composer', as you so clearly understated yesterday. I would be a fool to turn down your offer. I desperately need someone to help me and if you still want it, the position is yours."

"I do."

His tone was even and betrayed no trace of emotion. She usually read people fairly well but this man gave away nothing. "There is the small matter of where we can work," she mused. The Anniston's home would not be possible. They were not aware of her commission and she could only imagine the reception that Erik would receive at the door. No, that would not do at all.

His voice broke into her thoughts. "Why not here?"

"Here? Are you mad?" she scoffed. "We're trespassing as it is. I keep expecting someone to burst in here and discover that we've broken in. You can't be serious."

"I'm quite serious. I wouldn't have brought us here if I hadn't been sure of our safety. I know the running of this theatre as if I managed it. The maestro is scheduled to be a guest conductor in Vienna next month. There won't be any rehearsals here until after his return."

"But…but what if someone comes in unexpectedly? The owner, perhaps. Or someone else who decides to make a surprise visit."

"Highly unlikely but I concede it's a possibility. Unless you have another idea in mind, I can only offer one other alternative."

Having run short of other options, she would gladly hear his. "Oh? And what's that?"

"I have a piano at home. We could work there. However, it's a three quarter hour travel by foot. I wouldn't think it feasible for you."

Her hopes deflated. "No, I suppose not."

She had to make a decision. Henry might yet find a student to help her but she was nervous about delaying the work. Even starting immediately, they would be pressed for time in meeting the deadline. And while she wasn't entirely sure of how trustworthy Erik was, he certainly knew his way around music. At this point, she couldn't afford to refuse his offer. She reasoned that the situation suited her current purpose. After its completion, she could find someone else to work with. Perhaps that someone would not be such a gifted composer, but he'd be sure to be less…complex.

Setting her shoulders with firm resolve, she stuck out her hand. "I agree to your proposition. We'll work here." She paused, waiting until the warmth of his palm enveloped hers. After formally shaking hands, she tried to adopt a note of professionalism in her voice. "So let us go over some details, such as the amount of your compensation. I'm prepared to be generous, as I wouldn't be able to accomplish this on my own."

As they continued their discussion, she had the distinct feeling that she had no idea what she was getting in to. The next few weeks promised to be very interesting indeed.

* * *

A/N: Thank you, thank you, to my loyal reviewers. Wow, I'm really overwhelmed by your lovely comments. Erik and Melodie are both growing increasingly dear to my heart as well. Please keep reading and reviewing :-) 


	6. Ch 5: The Finished Score

Within the span of two weeks and two days, they had almost managed to finish the score. Only the final touches remained and would be completed in one additional day. The piece had been commissioned for the wife of a member of parliament. It was his birthday gift to her. A party at his home was planned in her honour and the work would be performed by a chamber orchestra comprised of her favourite instruments – harp, piano, violin, and cello.

Erik still found it amusing that Melodie had achieved the commission through the deception of being a man. She claimed that it didn't bother her, so long as her work was appreciated. Curious as to how it had all come about, she'd told him the tale. Colin Grayson had been invited to the Wentworth home for a luncheon and had mentioned to Albert that he wanted to plan a surprise for his wife's birthday. Henry had been helping to serve refreshments and overheard the remark. Though slightly nervous that he was stepping beyond his place, he'd nevertheless approached Colin as the gentleman was leaving. Along with the man's hat and cloak, Henry had discreetly passed some samples of Melodie's work. Though mildly surprised, Colin had accepted the samples and taken them with him. A few days later, he'd returned to seek Henry out. Not being able to read music, he'd asked someone to look over the pieces and the recommendation had been glowing. When Colin had pressed for details on the composer, Henry had looked to his imagination for guidance.

Apparently, Michael Blythe was a gifted composer but a total recluse. All dealings and communications were done strictly through Henry. The intriguing air of mystery might have even been a bonus. Colin had 'hired' Michael Blythe for a rather generous sum, considering he was yet an unknown name.

In order to account for her hours away from home, Melodie had told the Anniston's that she'd acquired a teaching position at a local music school. As long as it didn't detract from her lessons with Grace, Mr. and Mrs. Anniston did not seem to mind.

Today was to be their last day together. Erik waited for Melodie to arrive, softly tapping at the keys of the piano. They had worked surprisingly well together. Surprising, considering the process of working in tandem with another was utterly new to him. He supposed he'd had one other experience of sharing his talents with someone but that had been in the role of a teacher. The dynamics had been entirely different. He'd helped to shape and nurture Christine's voice, coaxing her vocal chords to reach soaring heights. She had called him 'Master' and indeed, he'd taken delight in pulling on her puppet strings. Manipulating her had been far too easy.

With Melodie, the situation was different. She was the master of her composing while he merely recorded the notes. Or at least, that was what he had expected. On several occasions she had asked for his suggestions on specific sections. Though flattered, he hadn't outwardly shown he was pleased. He'd offered his critique when asked but otherwise, retreated to his role as recorder and nothing more. He didn't want to repeat what had happened the first time they had sat down at the piano together.

He had wanted to hear her play and had practically demanded that she do so, physically guiding her to sit at the instrument. The music that had risen from her fingertips had touched him deeply. A locked chamber of his heart had slid open, just enough for a sliver of light to enter. He'd allowed the light to embrace him for a short while, sharing a passage of music that he'd written ages ago. His passion and loneliness had been wrapped in every note and when he'd finished, he'd been horrified by how much he'd revealed. Getting too close to her and her music was a dangerous path and one that he had no intention of taking. No matter how much an undeniable part of him longed to.

Absent-minded fingers stilled over the keys as he heard a sound approaching. His state of alertness relaxed as he recognized the light fall of footsteps and the unmistakeable sound of a cane scratching against the floor.

Melodie appeared from the right wing of the stage, her face glowing even in the dim light. With a sense of detachment, as if he was an unbiased observer, he noticed that her choice of a chocolate brown dress did nothing for her appearance. Blue would be much more flattering to her skin tone. Over the past two weeks, he'd learned that she indeed owned garments other than the standard issue white blouse and black skirt. But not many.

"Hello, Erik," she called out, smiling widely.

"Good day," he said, rising to allow her access to the piano bench.

After removing her cloak, she settled onto the seat, hefting her leather case with a little difficulty. The sheets of music were no longer stuffed into a basket. She'd indulged in the purchase of a proper casing so the papers did not have to be folded. It had grown quite thick now and obviously was her pride and joy.

"Isn't this exciting?" She continued to hold her smile, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "We'll be finished today. Then I'll take it straightaway to Henry and they'll still have sufficient time to rehearse. I think Mrs. Grayson will be very pleased with her surprise."

"Let's get started, shall we?" Erik urged, wanting to dispense with conversational pleasantries and get on with the work. He was in a particularly foul mood today. And although he was self-aware enough to know the reason, stopping to think about it only worsened his ire.

She blinked at him, her head cocked as if puzzled by the gruffness of his tone. For a moment, he thought she would question his abrupt attitude but she seemed to think better of it. "Certainly," she said smoothly, turning her attention to the matter at hand. Peering closely at each sheet, she spread them out on the top cover of the piano. "We left off yesterday debating about the closing section. Forte or pianissimo. Have you rethought your position?" she asked.

His answer was blunt. "No."

They had opposite views on how the final bars were to be played out. He felt the piece should end dramatically, with a strength that would command attention. She thought it better to softly fade away, with a lone violin trailing into the distance.

She pursed her lips, forming a perfect bow. "Not even in the slightest?"

"No. Because I know I'm right. Of course, you are the composer, not me. My opinion ultimately doesn't matter."

"I wish you would stop saying that. It _does_ matter." She paused, considering a little while longer. "But in this respect, I do believe you're wrong. A strong finish is always expected but what I've written for Mrs. Grayson calls for a more delicate hand. Pianissimo it shall be. I think I will even write it down myself."

As she turned her back to him, he snorted faintly with derision. "I heard that," she stated.

Despite his brooding, he had to bite his lip to keep from chuckling.

They spent the next few hours going over various details, finalizing all the loose ends. She sat and reworked certain phrases while he hunched over the scattered sheets, pen gripped in hand and flying to match her pace. He took no notice of the ink smearing across his fingers or the kink in his lower back. Whenever she stopped to mull something over, he found himself staring at her openly, as if memorizing her features. Her dark, wide set eyes were expressive pools that seemed unable to veil her emotions. Whether they flashed in annoyance or shined with happiness, they never failed to reveal her inner self. Though her skin was naturally fair, he'd never seen her with a parasol. Thus a smattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks marred her otherwise creamy skin. His gaze dropped unconsciously to her lips. They were slightly parted now in concentration. Full, sensuous lips that practically begged to be…

"Erik?"

He started, aware that her mouth had voiced his name. "Hmm?" he grunted, thoroughly irritated with himself for giving in to the distraction of her. This was precisely why he was thankful this particular partnership was coming to a close. Ironic, really, that he had been the one to pursue her so diligently. Now he couldn't wait to be free of her.

But that wasn't entirely true, his mind mocked. He was also loath to leave her. While he'd found pleasure in her music, as he had suspected he would, he'd also enjoyed her company – enjoyed it immensely. And therein lay the contradiction of his torn emotions. He didn't dare expose his heart again. No good could come of it.

"Is…something wrong?" she asked tentatively.

"No. Continue."

After another twenty minutes or so of minor adjustments, Melodie folded her hands in her lap, a look of satisfaction about her.

"I do believe we're done," she said. "Can you think of anything I've overlooked?"

"No." He set down the pen and rubbed at his fingers, only succeeding in transferring the black stains to his other hand.

"What is wrong with you?" she burst out, turning towards him with brows knit together. "Have I offended you somehow?"

"No."

"You've done nothing but give me grunts and one word answers. I've made it very clear that I value your views, yet I practically have to force them out of you. I don't understand your aloofness."

He closed his eyes briefly, shutting out the sight of her hurt and baffled face. "I'm not a man of warmth and manners, mademoiselle. I've done my duty and now, it appears our work is finished."

"Why do you not say my name?"

The question took him aback. "What?"

"My name. In all the hours and days we've spent together, it's never once crossed your lips. I just find it odd."

He said nothing, resorting to staring at her again. She remained oblivious, of course, looking at his general direction but seeming to gaze somewhere near his ribs. Right at where his heart should have been. At a loss for words, he continued to remain mute.

They both flinched at the muffled thud of a door from within the back corridors of the theatre. Someone was inside.

He heard her inhale sharply, her eyes widening. Snapping into action, he started gathering up the papers, cramming them into the case. When she stood up to reach for their cloaks, her hip knocked against the cane. It had been propped against the piano and started to fall. Only his lightening reflexes enabled him to snatch it before it clattered to the floor.

"The lights," she whispered, clutching the cloth bundle to her chest.

Cursing under his breath, he lunged for the long handled snuffer and successively eliminated each flame, wisps of smoke making his eyes sting. Thrown into darkness, he gave himself a few precious seconds to allow his vision to adjust. He could barely make out the shadow of Melodie's still form. Grabbing her arm, he led her across the stage and through the opposite wing. He felt her stumble once and raised her arm higher to keep her upright, but didn't slow the pace. The first door he found was locked. Moving quickly to the next, he fumbled with the handle and exhaled with relief when it turned beneath his hand. Pushing open the door, he stepped in first and pulled her in after him. When the door was closed, they were dropped into utter blackness. Although there were weak shafts of light visible at the bottom and one side of the doorway, it didn't permeate through the inky darkness.

Without even thinking about it, he'd adjusted his breathing to shallow, indiscernible depths. However, while his breaths seemed to diminish, hers were growing harsher with each passing second. Frowning, he knelt down to lay the cane and leather bound music at his feet. Then, with both hands free, he grasped each of her arms and nudged her a little closer to the door. The vertical slat of light was so faint; he doubted that her poor eyesight could even perceive it. No doubt, her world had been plunged into a nightmare of complete blindness.

Her head was down and he could only see the crown of her hair. Placing two fingers under her chin, he tilted her face up. Though it was difficult to judge her exact expression, she appeared to be struggling to breathe.

"Calm yourself," he hissed.

Jerking her head away, she dropped her face from view again. This time, she was practically doubled over.

She shook her head back and forth. "I can't do this." It was a whisper, but high pitched and sharply laced with panic. She strained backwards, as if ready to leap at the door.

Voices were approaching. Words weren't distinguishable but the source seemed to be two men.

Though she resisted, Erik brought her up against him, a little more roughly than he had intended. "You're fine," he breathed in her ear. "Just hold onto me."

Taking his advice literally, small hands clutched at his shirtfront, as if holding on for dear life. And though she had finally stilled in his arms, he felt her heart fluttering madly, like a bird trying to escape its cage. Her face pressed tightly against his chest. Closing his eyes, he allowed his head to lower, drawn by the citrus scent of her silky hair. She always smelled fresh and intoxicating – one of the reasons why he avoided sitting too close to her.

The voices and footsteps floated past their hiding place. He heard one of them mention retrieving something that had been forgotten. The sounds from the corridor faded into the distance but that didn't mean all was clear. After letting more time pass, he finally crept to the door and opened it less than an inch. Pausing, he strained his ears but was only met by silence.

He kept his voice low, barely more than a mutter. "Wait here. I'll make sure they've gone."

"You're leaving me alone?"

Panic had edged back into her voice again. He pulled the door open a little wider, allowing more light to filter through. Glancing down at her, he could now discern the haunted look in her rounded eyes. It was a look he was more than familiar with, and yet it troubled him to see it reflecting from her.

"Stand by the door. Keep it open a few inches, but no more than that. I'll return shortly." He took one step and halted. "I'll have to ask that you release me, my dear."

Twin spots of rosy colour suffused each of her smooth cheeks. She said nothing, but immediately let go of his shirt. Slipping into the hallway, he traversed silently, stopping every so often to listen for any sign of the visitors. But it appeared they were alone in the theatre once more. Just to be sure, he ended up circling the ground floor of the entire building. The Empire was a relatively small theatre so it didn't take overly long. Although it was possible the men had retreated to a room or some other corner of the establishment, it didn't seem likely. It would be best, however, not to overstay their welcome.

Coming full circle to the very spot he'd started from, he was mildly surprised to find the door firmly shut. She must have heard his approach. He mused that perhaps he wasn't as stealthy as he imagined himself to be. Easing open the door, he said quietly, "All is clear. You can come out now."

Expecting her to meekly peek her head around the door, he wasn't prepared for the flash of brown that hurtled towards him. As the small whirlwind slammed into him, he rocked backwards but managed to remain on his feet. Before he could reach out to her, she spun around and hit the wall with her back. Sucking in air with huge, gulping breaths, she sank down to the floor, drawing up her knees and hiding her face in the folds of her dress.

Watching her tremble and shudder, he felt a stab of pity. It was an emotion he usually reserved for wounded animals. She, however, was a fully capable woman. "You're behaving like a child," he said, his tone cold.

Her head lifted slightly, just enough for her to speak clearly. "I'm well aware of that. Thank you very much," she snapped. "Just give me a minute." And down went her head again, her forehead resting on her knees.

Leaving her to calm her own demons, he walked into the room to gather up their belongings. It was a small enclosure, bare of any furnishings. Aside from a lone bucket and mop propped against a corner, it was empty. Unused and filthy as well, judging by the coating of dust and grime that now covered a good portion of his cloak. Retrieving it from the floor with a grimace, he swiped at it ineffectually. He completed the task slowly, giving Melodie some time to collect herself. By the time he stepped out once more, she was standing and waiting for him. Her face appeared rather drawn and pinched, but he detected no traces of the frightened child that had clung to him in the dark.

Wordlessly, he draped her cloak about her shoulders and pressed the cane and leather case into her hands. Turning on her heel, she quickly strode down the hall towards the back exit. Throwing his own cloak about him, he lifted the hood and trailed after her. Once outside, he used his version of a key to carefully lock the door. It was a handy stick of metal, about four inches long with a curved tip. He'd used it countless times to manipulate the inner workings of locks and bolts. Yet another skill that didn't necessarily endear him to respectable London society.

With eyes closed, her face turned up towards the sky, like a flower seeking the sun's rays. The afternoon was overcast and they stood in a narrow, gloomy alleyway. Yet, she seemed grateful for the freedom, breathing in deeply. Dreary though their surroundings were, he imagined she was comforted by the daylight.

"I'm sorry for what happened back there," she said at last. "You must think me a silly goose."

"Considering your…situation, I suppose it's understandable," he said generously.

"My situation?"

He thought it obvious. "Your blindness."

"Oh. Yes. I suppose there's that too." She sounded thoughtful, then blinked and spoke briskly. "Well, it appears our work is complete. I'm not sure if I'll receive payment upon submission or after the performance. How shall I contact you?"

He took a moment to consider the question. "There's a young lad that I sometimes hire to run errands for me. I'll have him go to you the morning after the performance."

"All right. And his name? You do know his name, I hope."

He couldn't believe she was deliberately baiting him. "It's Peter," he spoke through gritted teeth.

One corner of her lip curled upwards – the only sign of her faint amusement. "Henry has been invited to the Grayson's for the party and I'll be accompanying him. I don't suppose you would consider joining us?"

"I think not."

"Yes, well, I wanted to extend the invitation." She cleared her throat. "It's been good working with you. It truly has. You've done more than simply write down the notes. Your advice has been invaluable. I hope that someday you'll be able to share your gift with others. Good luck to you, Erik."

He drank in her features for the final time. "And to you," he said softly. Deciding he did not wish to watch her walk away, he spun around and departed from her first. Each step that increased the distance between them firmed his resolve. He'd been complacent for far too long. It was time for a change.

When he thought about what he would miss the most about her, the first thing that sprang to mind was so ridiculous, he grunted with self-derision.

Her freckles.

* * *

A/N: I acknowledge your requests for fluff and drama. I hope this story will deliver on the drama. As for fluff, I promise there will be some later but not for a while. Hang in there.

Special thanks to Rancid Melody for exceeding my review expectations. The comments have been helpful.


	7. Ch 6: Tonight In Celebration 'Point'

Standing in front of the full-length mirror and swaying to and fro, Melodie placed her hands on either side of her waist and tilted her head, pretending to admire her form. It was a pity that she couldn't actually see anything beyond a golden blur. Leaning in for a closer look, her gaze dropped to the neckline of her dress. Eyes popping with surprise, she noted the obvious swell of her bosom. It had never been so prominently on display before.

At the knock on the door, she snapped back to an upright position. "Come in," she called out. The door opened and a single clap of hands reached her ears.

"Oh Melodie, you look wonderful!" Trina Anniston exclaimed, the delight evident in her voice.

"You really think so?"

"I do. While I always loved that dress, the colour made me look washed out. But with your darker hair, the yellow suits you perfectly."

Melodie smoothed one palm over her hip, still feeling out of place wearing such a garment. The richness of the silk felt exquisite, yet odd. She might be a swan on the exterior, but still remained the gangly duckling on the inside.

She traced the neckline with her index finger. "Do you not think this too low?"

"Nonsense. It's an evening gown. And a very modestly cut one, at that. Now, come and sit here. I'd like to arrange your hair."

She obediently took a seat and felt the older woman's hand lightly run atop her head. "Lovely and thick," Trina murmured, gliding a brush through the tresses. "Grace never sits still long enough to permit me to do this. That child has the most unruly hair imaginable. Takes after her father, I'm afraid."

"This really isn't necessary," Melodie began to say.

Trina interrupted her. "Shush. Or I might accidentally jab you with a hairpin."

Smiling, Melodie gave in and did her best to remain absolutely still. She would have been content to wear something from her own wardrobe but when Trina had heard about tonight's party, she'd set her own plans in motion. This morning, she'd gathered up an armful of dresses in a rainbow of colours. The silks and muslins had been deposited on Melodie's bed, with the instruction that she was to choose one; a seamstress would be dropping by the next hour to make any necessary alterations. Though Melodie had protested, her words had fallen on deaf ears.

"Just one last pin should do it," Trina announced. Melodie could barely even discern it sliding into place. "There. You look much more elegant with your hair upswept. Would you care to take a look?"

The cool handle of what she recognized as the hand mirror was nudged against her fingertips. Holding it up, she perused her image. With the hair up, she looked more mature and the line of her neck seemed longer. She wasn't able to regard the whole effect of her transformation but of what she could view, she thought she might pass for pretty tonight.

She patted Trina's nearby arm. "I love it. Thank you so much."

"You're welcome. Now, I want you to know this dress is yours."

Melodie almost dropped the mirror. She set it on the vanity before risking her luck for the next seven years. "What? I couldn't possibly…"

"Hear me out, dear. I know you wouldn't feel comfortable tonight wearing a borrowed dress, so you need to know it's your own. And don't be concerned by a stain or two."

"Stain?"

"Oh yes. It's a party, after all. That means food and drink. It's almost inevitable that someone will spill a drop of wine on you or a clumsy gentleman will step on your hem and cause a tear. But don't fret about it." Trina exhaled a sigh. "In any case, I don't have the figure of my youth. It's rather silly of me to keep all these dresses. I thought Grace might wear them one day but they'll most likely be horribly out of fashion by then. You've been wonderfully patient with my daughter, so it pleases me to do this for you."

Melodie was truly touched by the gesture. "You're very kind."

With a final adjustment to a stray hairpin, Trina bustled about once more. "Now, don't forget your gloves. Henry is waiting for you in the parlour. Oh, I almost forgot."

Another small item, this one tiny and rounded, found its way to Melodie's palm. "Dip your finger in this," she instructed, "and put some on your lips. It will give them just a hint of pinkness and a little shine. It's very subtle, I promise."

Leaving her to finish getting ready, Trina closed the door behind her. Curious, Melodie picked up the mirror once more and carefully applied the substance to her lips. It felt a little waxy but as promised, its effect was not overpowering. She imagined it would keep her lips from becoming chapped as well. Staring at the reflection of her mouth, a sudden vision of Erik's curving lips swam before her. Horrified, she slammed down the mirror without thinking, grateful when it didn't shatter to pieces.

She refused to think about him tonight. Pushing back her chair so it squeaked horribly against the floor, she got to her feet and sought out her gloves. Every time she did stop to remember that last day together, her face burned with humiliation. She'd made an utter fool of herself. Besides which, the man was completely maddening. Initially, she'd been excited by the fire and vivacity in his music and looked forward to working with him. But then, something had changed. He'd become cold and distant, his moods seeming to shift on a whim. She wondered whether anyone, including herself, would ever take the effort to peel away his complex layers. And what would one find at the core – a deeply buried treasure or simply a hollow, empty soul of a man?

Had she not just decided to banish him from her thoughts?

"Honestly, Mellie, you're hopeless," she stated out loud.

Taking grip of her cane, she proceeded to greet Henry in the parlour.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Melodie had been surprised to find not only Henry, but a carriage waiting for her as well. Albert Wentworth had apparently been delighted to learn that she would be accompanying Henry and insisted on hiring a separate transport for them. Like Trina, he was often generous that way and treated his loyal head of staff very well.

Nearing their destination, the pace slowed and the carriage soon came to a halt. As the coachman leapt down and opened the door, she could hear a mingling of airy voices and trills of laughter from outside. Henry stepped out first and she was thankful for his steady hand as he guided her down. Her dress was much more voluminous than she was accustomed to, making her feel awkward. Combined with her alarmingly tight corset, she felt entirely uncomfortable, despite Trina's kind offering.

Slipping her arm through Henry's, they began to walk. "I didn't think politicians made this much money," she commented, her tone wry. "Describe the estate to me, Henry."

"Apparently, he comes from a wealthy family. He didn't go into politics for the money," he explained. "It's a little too dark to see clearly but the grounds seem very large indeed. It took a good two minutes to arrive here from the main road. We're just passing a fountain right now and will be coming up to the house. It's quite massive. I hate to think how many rooms there are to clean."

She chortled softly. "Don't make me laugh. I'm ready to burst at the seams as it is."

There was a bit of a queue at the door, as invitations were carefully scanned. When their turn came, a frantic voice carried across the front hall.

"It's all right! Send them through!"

Still linked with Henry's arm, she followed him as they were led aside. The man lowered his voice. "Henry, thank God you're here. Something disastrous has happened."

Henry matched the low volume but sounded concerned. "What's wrong?"

"Some idiot coachman managed to crush the pianist's hand in the carriage door. The poor girl was beside herself. Who knows if there will be permanent damage. The doctor's been here and patched her up. I've already sent her home. I thought you might know of someone who could replace her? I know it's next to impossible at this hour but I'm desperate."

"Erm, well…"

"Or could it still be done without a piano?"

Melodie replied automatically, a little put off by the thought. "It doesn't work that way. Forgive me, I don't mean to be rude," she added.

Henry intervened hastily. "Allow me to make the introduction. Melodie, this is Colin Grayson."

Her hand was lifted and – she assumed – kissed. She detected nothing beyond a slight pressure from beneath her glove. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you," Colin said formally. "Excuse my manners. I'm not normally so abrupt. I'm just terribly disappointed. Everything had been going so well and now this."

Melodie nodded absently, a plan starting to brew in her mind. It was bold. It was perhaps foolhardy. But it could work.

"I think I could assist you," she said.

Henry's arm tightened against hers. "Mellie…"

"How's that?" Colin asked.

"I'm actually Michael Blythe's assistant. I'm very familiar with this piece and am confident that I could fill the role of your pianist."

There was now an urgent tugging on her arm. "Mellie, could I speak to you for a moment? Excuse us, Mr. Grayson."

Yet again, she found herself led a few feet away. "Do you really think this wise?" Henry murmured.

She stayed firm with her resolve. "I came here tonight to hear my work performed in public. I have no intention of leaving without that satisfaction. Even if I have to do it myself."

"I understand. Really, I do. But...Michael Blythe's assistant?"

"I had to concoct some explanation for knowing the music. I can't very well say I'm going to sight read."

He sighed with resignation. "True. Well, if you feel you're up to it, I suppose it's your decision."

Though Colin appeared happy with this turn of events, he expressed it in a restrained way. Perhaps he was even skeptical of her claims. She was blind, after all. And really, just how good of a pianist could she be? She supposed she couldn't blame him for any reservations he might have.

As Colin took them down another hallway, he explained that the remaining three musicians were anxiously waiting in the ballroom. They weren't sure if they would still be performing or if their duties would be cancelled.

Melodie tried to calm her nerves as she entered the large room. She dearly wished she could take in her surroundings. A ballroom. She'd never stepped into one before. A low chatter of mixed voices from across the room stilled as their small party approached. Colin made introductions all around and Henry led her to the piano. After stripping off her gloves, she set them aside with her cane. Settling herself into position, she briefly closed her eyes and inhaled deeply before beginning. She played quietly but flawlessly. Ten bars later, she stopped at the touch of a hand on her shoulder.

"Thank you, Melodie," Colin said, sounding truly grateful. "I believe you're hired."

He soon departed to attend to his guests and she talked with the others. There was some concern over the fact that they'd never rehearsed together. Although one of them suggested a brief go at it now, the idea was rejected. Too little time and they couldn't risk being overheard. The element of surprise was key, after all. Melodie tried to make assurances that it would be fine. Since the others were more of a cohesive group, she would take her cues from them and follow their lead. She pointed out the fact that although it might sound less than perfection to their trained ears, it wouldn't be discernible to the general public.

The guests would be ushered in at precisely eight o'clock. That left a half hour of time to fill. Wanting to move about, Melodie went with Henry to the area where refreshments were being served. She sipped at some punch, deciding to save the wine until after the performance. When Henry offered her some type of hors d'oeuvre that smelled like sausage, she wrinkled her nose. If she even attempted to eat now with the combination of bone-crushing corset and shaky nerves, the consequence would not be pleasant.

At last, the time had come. After Henry kissed her cheek and bade her good luck, she hurried back to the ballroom. Seated once more at the piano, she realized her palms were actually damp with sweat. Wondering if anyone was watching, she discreetly brushed at her dress, as if smoothing out the wrinkles.

Once the doors were thrown open, a buzzing thrum of voices could be heard as the crowd was directed to their seats. She sat up straighter, swallowing with a little difficulty. What had she been thinking? She'd never performed in public before. And this was not exactly the general public, as she'd so casually stated to her fellow orchestral group. This was an invitation-only private party for friends and colleagues of a government official.

_Breathe, Mellie._

Colin's voice rang out above the excited hum and they hushed immediately. "Ladies and gentlemen. Friends. Thank you for joining me today in honour of my wife's birthday. Beatrice is delighted that you've come and so am I. And now, for the highlight of this evening, I'm pleased to present my gift to Beatrice. The commission of a new work by an extremely talented but unknown composer named Michael Blythe. I daresay after tonight, perhaps he won't be quite so unknown. Without further adieu, here is the debut of his work entitled, _Celebration._"

The next twenty-three minutes passed by in a blur. It was perhaps the singular moment thus far that Melodie was actually grateful to be blind. Unable to scan the sea of faces, she imagined she played for herself alone. Once her trembling hands first touched the keys, she was fine. Her pulse throbbed in thrilling time to the music. She hungrily relished each and every note, not wanting to miss a fraction of the experience. And when the violin's final, lone note receded into thin air, she realized it was over.

Several belated seconds later, the audience erupted into clamorous applause, the sudden noise making her flinch. She soon found herself swept up in hugs and the shaking of hands by each of the musicians. Congratulations were extended all around and she thanked them for allowing her to join them. Reaching for her cane, she held it tightly, finding comfort in its familiarity. All this attention had the potential for being a little overwhelming.

She smiled in recognition of Henry's voice. "Mellie! That was smashing! I'm so proud of you." As he embraced her, she nuzzled against the crook of his neck, inhaling his faint scent of peppermint – another warm and familiar comfort.

"Could you tell I was nervous?" she asked.

"Not at all. You were the picture of serenity."

Another voice joined them. Colin spoke loudly to be heard above the din of the crowd. "Melodie, you certainly saved the evening. I can't thank you enough. May I present my wife, Beatrice. She wanted to meet you."

Feeling rather stilted, Melodie dipped an awkward curtsey. "It's an honour, ma'am."

"The honour is mine," Beatrice said warmly. "My husband tells me you're blind. How extraordinary that you play so beautifully. I couldn't have asked for a better gift. I would dearly love to meet Mr. Blythe sometime as well. Do you think it might be possible?"

"Oh, I'm afraid not. He values his privacy."

Colin made a sound in the back of his throat, a sign of his disbelief. "But surely he realizes that anonymity will do nothing to further his career."

"Well, he believes his music should speak for itself. And he feels that should others be interested in his work, they'll come to him." Realizing that she was painting a horribly arrogant picture, she hastened to add, "Of course, he's very grateful for the opportunity you've provided him tonight. Hopefully word of his talent will spread."

Indeed, she could barely believe the words that were coming out of her mouth. When had she become such a master of deception? Then again, she had managed to conceal her blindness from an entire household for more than five years. Perhaps she wasn't as much a stranger to deceit as she liked to think.

Colin's ruffled feathers seemed to subside somewhat. "Your Mr. Blythe doesn't seem to be much of a business man, but there's no denying his talent. I wish him well. And this, Melodie, is for you."

She accepted what felt like a velvet bag. It was quite heavy and jingled, as if filled with coins. "What is it?" she asked.

"Payment for your services tonight."

Surprised, she had to protest. "But you've already paid me. I mean, you made your payment when the score was submitted."

"Yes, but that didn't include your unexpected role tonight. This is for you, not Mr. Blythe. I insist you accept it. I would be quite offended if you didn't."

Well, she certainly didn't want to offend the man. And she supposed she'd earned it. "All right, then. Thank you very much."

After a last curtsey, she waited until she was sure the Graysons were engrossed in another conversation. Turning to Henry, she gave in to her excitement. "The bag is so heavy, Henry. Do you think it's a good sum?"

"I don't doubt it."

"Would it be terribly vulgar to count it out here, you think?"

"Mellie!"

Giggling, she pressed the bag into his hands. "I'm joking, of course. Would you take it for me, please? Oh, excuse me," she murmured, jostled to the side as someone bumped against her. It was starting to feel excessively warm in the room. The air seemed to grow thicker with the press of bodies, cloying and suffocating. She found herself squeezing the cane so tightly, her fingers grew numb. "Do you see a terrace nearby?"

"Actually, yes. Are you all right?"

"I'm fine. It's just a little stifling in here. Could you lead me to the doors?"

Once she reached the open doorway, she breathed in the cool night air. It was refreshing and she immediately felt better.

"Shall I get you a drink?" Henry offered. "Water, perhaps?"

"Yes, thank you."

Wanting to feel more than a waft of air on her face, she carefully stepped outside and walked across the terrace. Once her cane bumped against an obstruction, she put out her hand and felt smooth, horizontal stone beneath her palm. She'd reached the outer perimeter. Setting down the cane, she propped both elbows on the flat surface and leaned forward. She hummed softly to herself and stared out into nothingness, trying to imagine what lay beyond her. A garden, perhaps. Lots of trees and greenery, to be sure. It would probably be a divine place to do some composing.

"It appears congratulations are in order."

The voice sprang out of nowhere, startling her as she whirled around. Though she suddenly felt chilled, the cause wasn't the night air. He didn't have to identify himself. She would know that voice anywhere.

"What are you doing here?" she asked coldly.

* * *

A/N: Geez, it's been like freakin' torture to get this chapter uploaded! But I think this might finally be successful. Excuse me for my rant.

As always, thanks to all my loyal reviewers. I look forward to each of your comments.


	8. Tonight In Celebration 'Counterpoint'

It was just as he had suspected – a room full of stodgy old men, walking around like stuffed peacocks full of hot air and self-importance. Their matronly wives, glittering in their finest jewels and gowns as they twittered and gossiped, surrounded them.

In other words, David Wentworth was bored. At least the liquor was of excellent quality. Throwing his head back, he gulped down the second glass of brandy since his arrival. Considering that had been fifteen minutes ago, he wasn't doing too badly.

He raised his empty glass to a nearby server. "I'll have another," he ordered.

Without even looking, he could feel his father's glare of disapproval. "I know what you're thinking, Father, but allow me this one indulgence. You dragged me here against my will, after all."

"It would have been rude of you to refuse the invitation," Albert said stiffly.

David grimaced. "Yes, and appearances mean everything, after all. We're just the perfect family. Isn't that right?"

His mother's hand touched his sleeve. "Please, can we be civil for one night?" Ellen pleaded.

He resisted rolling his eyes and even managed to sound sincere. "I promise to be on my best behaviour."

Surely there had to be a few women closer to his age milling about. His eyes scanned the room, pausing at each female prospect and ultimately finding some fatal flaw before moving on. _Too fat. Too tall. Too ugly. Laughed like a horse._

He shook his head with disgust. _Too depressing._ His father's ire be damned, he should have stayed in tonight – or even better, gone to Diana's salon. He had a standing invitation there.

Where was that blasted server? If he was going to survive this evening, he needed another drink. _Hold on. What have we here?_

His gaze focused in on a solitary woman standing apart from the crowd. She was some distance away but he found his eyes drawn to her, perhaps for the very reason that she wasn't huddled in some group, prattling on about the latest scandal. _A little on the short side but that didn't bother him. Slender but deliciously curved in all the right places. Clutching a black walking stick. Interesting._

Her face was in profile and when her head swung towards him, he thankfully noted that she was attractive. She seemed rather familiar as well. His mouth fell open at the precise moment that he realized who she was. Good God, with the elegant hairstyle and fancy gown, he hadn't even recognized her.

He turned to his father. "You didn't tell me she was going to be here."

Albert looked puzzled. "Who?"

"Melodie!"

"Oh, didn't I? I'm sure I must have mentioned it. She's here, then? I must say hello."

David glanced over in her direction again, just in time to see her hurry away. "Don't bother. She just left. So why is she here?"

"Henry brought her. And I know for a fact that I did tell you the reason he was invited. If you don't remember that, I suggest you clean out your ears or remain sober for a change."

"Albert…" Ellen murmured, sounding dismayed.

Though David bristled, he was an expert at pretending his father's jabs failed to wound. "It's all right, Mother. No harm done. If you'll excuse me."

He couldn't get away fast enough. Would it kill his father to say something halfway supportive for a change, rather than colouring everything with a thinly veiled insult? All his life he'd endured criticisms and negativity. And it all seemed to be reserved especially for him. To everyone else, his father was magnanimous to a fault. Generous and kind hearted. How many times had he heard those descriptions? He'd learned that he would never please his father so he'd long ago given up trying.

The crowd in the reception hall suddenly seemed to shift, slowly moving towards the sets of wide French doors leading to the hallway. It must be time for the surprise event. Perhaps he could still manage to squeeze in another drink. _Oh, never mind._ He would have plenty of time after this next boring interlude.

If the sight of Melodie hadn't intrigued him, he would have had their coachman take him back to the city and drop him off at Diana's. Now, he supposed he'd have to endure the evening a little while longer and try to seek her out after the much-ballyhooed surprise. He would find out what she'd been up to since making her escape. _Escape._ Another flash of envy flowed through him. How was it possible that a little slip of a servant girl could make him seethe with jealousy time and time again? It was positively infuriating.

Following the throng, he took a seat and looked towards the front of the room. A small stage had been set up in the centre. As his gaze took in the waiting musicians, he gave way to a yawn. His assumption had been right. This would most definitely be boring. And yet again, his mind boggled with surprise. That was Melodie seated at the piano! _What on earth…?_

Since she was performing, he paid a little more attention than he normally would have. Still, this music did nothing for him. He supposed it was quaint and charming but his mind soon began wandering listlessly. Stifling another yawn, he only snapped to attention when the audience clapped wildly with a roar of approval. It appeared the performance was over. _Good._ Now he just had to find the opportune moment to approach her.

As people rose to their feet and started mingling, he spied a server approaching with flutes of champagne. Plucking two from the tray, he headed towards the stage. He'd lost sight of her but now could see her again, talking with Colin Grayson himself. Indeed, the little minx was brimming with surprises tonight. He bided his time impatiently, one foot tapping the floor in a restless rhythm. At last, some progress was being made. Keeping his distance, he trailed along, following Henry and Melodie towards the terrace. When Henry left her side, she soon ventured out onto the terrace alone. _Perfect._

He approached her in silence, his faint footsteps swallowed by the muted but audible noise of the party behind him.

"It appears congratulations are in order," he said slyly.

Her back was to him. At the sound of his voice, she visibly flinched before spinning around. Watching her carefully, he was disappointed to see that she'd merely been startled, not frightened. There was a difference.

"What are you doing here?" she asked. Her voice was several degrees colder than the night air.

"I could ask you the same thing," he responded, genuinely curious.

"I don't wish to speak with you. I came out here for some privacy so please, go away."

He refused to be deterred so easily. "But I've brought you a drink," he coaxed. Lowering the fragile stem of the glass, he nudged it against her free hand.

Her fingers closed around it, holding it higher. "What is it?"

"Champagne," he replied.

He choked on his next words as icy liquid splashed him full in the face. Her movement had been so fluid and quick; he hadn't even had time to close his eyes. Blinking madly, he winced against the stinging pain, swiping at his sopping face.

"You little bitch," he snarled, seizing her forearm furiously with one hand and drawing back the other, poised to strike.

Something in his peripheral vision caught his attention, distracting him. There was a huge, towering statue off in the corner of the terrace.

He could have sworn it had moved.

And growled.

As quickly as he'd taken hold of her arm, he released it. Perhaps the liquor was addling his brain.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Patting the sleek, muscled neck of his horse, Erik was pleased to see the animal had barely broken a sweat. He'd just acquired the stallion two days ago and this was the first time they'd rode such a distance. Tethering him to a nearby tree, he gave the fine animal one final pat before moving off into the shadows. The moon shone quite brightly tonight, bathing everything in a liquid, shimmering glow. Even the shadows weren't as dark as he normally preferred.

It hadn't been difficult to find out where Colin Grayson lived. What had been difficult was making the decision to come. In the end, he couldn't resist this one chance to hear _Celebration_ performed to an appreciative crowd – a piece he'd had a small hand in shaping.

Approaching the rear of the vast house, he vaulted with ease over the low stone rail surrounding the terrace, his black cape rippling behind him. Keeping close to the wall, he slowed as he neared the open glassed doors. His timing had been excellent. The introduction was just being made now. He leaned back, allowing himself to relax slightly as the music started. Closing his eyes, he unconsciously swayed just a touch to the music. The piano sounded particularly striking…and strangely familiar.

Frowning, he edged closer to the doorway and took a calculated risk by exposing his unmasked eye very briefly – long enough to recognize the face bent in concentration over the piano. _Had this been planned all along? Why would she not have mentioned performing as well as composing the piece?_

Before withdrawing from view again, he took a moment to appreciate the sheer beauty of the ballroom. He found it gratifying that the performance could be enjoyed in surroundings of such elegance.

It was a world that he feared was forever beyond his reach.

Drawing back into well-acquainted darkness, he absorbed the remainder of the work, keeping absolutely still this time. Knowledge that Melodie herself graced the piano's notes made the evening all the more bittersweet.

Seconds after the performance concluded, the resounding response of the audience seemed to indicate her debut had been a great success. Risking one more glance into the interior, he craned his neck around. She appeared to have been engulfed by a congratulatory crowd. He watched for some time as she chatted, but his view was mostly obscured by others as they hovered nearby.

At last, afraid that someone would wander onto the terrace, he decided to make his retreat. A large, imposing statue at the far end of the terrace captured his attention. Pausing, he stepped back to admire it. He was fairly certain it was Apollo – god of Music. _How fitting._

At the sound of footsteps behind him, he lunged forward and ducked behind the protective shelter of the stone god. Peering around it, he found himself staring at Melodie. Finally, he had an unobstructed view. She looked charming, though her gown had far too many frills and ribbons, making her seem rather girlish. A plainer dress would better allow her subtle loveliness to shine. The colour choice of buttery yellow was flattering, at least. As for the upswept hair, it served to elongate her neck, but he much preferred it spilling glossily over her shoulders.

He considered going to her. She had, after all, extended an invitation for him to come. But he'd already said his goodbye once and that had been difficult enough. It would be torturous to repeat it here. Ready to slip down to the grassy lawn, he froze at the sound of a male voice.

"It appears congratulations are in order."

Unable to help himself, he turned back around and watched as a well-dressed young man approached with twin champagne glasses in hand. Fair, with blonde hair tied at the nape of his neck, he was appropriately handsome and strode with confidence.

A flash of memory flared through Erik, making him feel sick with remembrance. _The rooftop of the Paris opera house. Raoul and Christine. Betrayal, despair, and mindless rage._

The emotions from that hellish scene bubbled up once more, coiling from the pit of his stomach and seeping through every fibre of his skin. The pain of it took his breath away so sharply, he almost missed her reaction. Almost.

"What are you doing here?"

She sounded extremely displeased.

Erik tossed his head, trying to shake off the cobwebs of the past so he could concentrate on what was happening right before him. He shuffled to the side, knowing he was partially visible but beyond caring.

"I could ask you the same thing."

His eyes narrowed as he eavesdropped on the pair. Something smelled suspicious. Melodie looked visibly uncomfortable, though she was valiantly trying to hide it.

"I don't wish to speak with you. I came out here for some privacy so please, go away."

_There. Proof of her unease and displeasure._ Erik's keen eyes flickered to her partner in this wary dance. What he saw caused a jolt of anger to course through him, his gloved hands clenching into fists.

The young man was openly leering at her, his gaze resting far below her face. Though she wasn't aware of it, he was taking advantage of her blindness. As he bent to hand her the glass, his eyes slowly roamed over her curved assets.

"But I've brought you a drink."

"What is it?"

Erik wondered what she was up to. The fact that she had accepted the glass surprised him. Her question sounded so very innocent.

"Champagne."

What transpired next made him snicker under his breath. _Clever girl._ She had made the inquiry so the man's reply would reveal the exact location of his pasty face. Her precision had been remarkable.

_Bravo, my dear._

"You little bitch!"

The furious, spurned suitor grabbed hold of her arm, yanking her towards him and drawing back his other hand. Incensed, Erik darted out even further from his hidden post.

He growled from the depths of his throat, sounding feral and threatening. "_Salaud_," he cursed. If that bastard struck her, left one bruise on her fragile skin, his life was finished.

Though he hadn't spoken that loudly, the night was still and quiet, allowing the minutest sound to carry through the air. As the man's head jerked up, Erik instinctively retreated slightly. His cape billowed out, caught on a gust of wind, but he stilled it with one hand. He still had the couple in his sights and was prepared to make his presence known if necessary.

However, the man had dropped her arm as if suddenly burned, his other hand falling limply to his side. "Did you hear that?" he muttered. "I thought I saw something move…"

Melodie replied with disdain. "You drink far too much. Clearly, it's affecting your brain."

He didn't comment but gazed towards the statue once more, his expression discomfited. Erik half expected him to start heading his way to investigate. _Let him come._ He almost welcomed the confrontation.

But a new voice entered the tense arena, disrupting the moment.

"Mellie, sorry I was delayed! Oh…David. Good evening."

Erik recognized the older gentleman. Henry. He came bearing a drink as well, though it appeared to be harmless water. His greeting was polite but cool.

David did not seem to be a popular man. At least, not in this small circle.

"Henry," he acknowledged. "You must be proud of your Mellie. I didn't know she'd be performing tonight."

"I'm always proud, yes." Henry peered at the younger man closely. "Are you ill? Your face seems rather…damp."

Lightly brushing at his cheek with the cuff of his dresscoat, David tried to laugh dismissively but it seemed strained. "It was overly warm in the ballroom. That's why I strolled out for some air. Well, Melodie, it's been a pleasure getting reacquainted but I should get back. I bid you both, goodnight."

With a cultured bow, he turned and stalked away.

"What was that all about?" Henry questioned. "Was he bothering you?"

Erik noticed his outward concern. Melodie's shoulders slumped forward a little, as if finally able to relax with David gone. "No. He was merely…congratulating me on a job well done."

Looking troubled, Henry said, "I'm not sure I believe you. Not when your glass is suspiciously empty and his chin was positively dripping."

Erik had to resist the urge to laugh at her obvious glee in hearing that observation. She smiled. Grinned, actually.

"Really? Was it dripping? It must be terribly embarrassing to literally drip with sweat. Poor man," she crooned.

"Indeed," said Henry dryly. He took the long stemmed glass from her hand and replaced it with the goblet of water. "Since I doubt you've actually imbibed any liquid, you must be parched. Drink up. Now, I have the most exciting news for you. It's why I was detained. I believe I may have just secured your next commission."

She almost choked on the water, her shock evident. "What? How?" she spluttered.

"Two gentlemen just approached me. They're in the midst of building a new theatre and want to commission a new work for the opening night gala. They were impressed by what they heard tonight and want to hire Michael Blythe."

"I can't believe this. It's what I hoped for but I didn't think it would happen so soon. What are they looking for?"

A smile spread across Henry's weathered face, as if he knew the answer would please her. "A symphony."

Her squeal of joy caused Erik's lip to curl with amusement. She'd suddenly been reduced to a little girl, ribbons and all.

"A _symphony_! Oh, Henry! You know that's always been a dream of mine." Launching herself forward, she threw her arms around the chuckling man, managing to splash water across his shoulder. She immediately stepped back, her expression contrite. "Sorry, I'm so clumsy."

Extracting a handkerchief from his pocket, he blotted at the darkened spot. "Quite all right. Although you're a bit of a menace tonight, I'll admit."

Pressing a hand to her mouth, she hid a smile and sighed wistfully. "What a night! So much has happened." She shivered slightly. "It's getting chilly. Shall we go back?"

Retrieving her cane, she took Henry's proffered arm and headed for the doors. Heads drawn together, they continued to chat until they disappeared from view.

Erik didn't move for a long while, continuing to stand within Apollo's dark shadow. As his amusement faded, an itch began to plague him, just below his right eye. The irritation seemed to grow and swell, until he almost ripped the mask from his face and flung it to the ground. He did no such thing, of course. He merely stood there, back to back with the statue, listening to his own ragged breathing.

His goal tonight had been accomplished, yet he felt no sense of satisfaction. Seeing Melodie again had ruined the pleasure of simply enjoying the performance. He had thought she would merely be an unseen face in the audience. Even then, perhaps he wouldn't have been able to resist searching her out for a last glimpse. But he certainly hadn't predicted this drawn out drama that had been played out on the terrace stage.

He told himself he should be happy for her. And he was. Her little deception had proved to be successful and her next work had already been commissioned. Yet, if he was brutally honest with himself, he admitted a twinge of envy. Her future appeared to be bright and promising. His own path seemed to lead to a great, gaping black hole – an unknown void.

A road he was destined to travel alone.

He slammed a backward fist into the unyielding stone behind him, disappointed that his leather glove softened the impact. _Useless, weak self-pity!_ He'd already wallowed in it for far too long and had vowed never to step foot in it again. _Putain! _

The mental curse roused him out of idleness. With a running leap, he bolted over the rail and landed gracefully on the lawn below. Blending in with the cover of night, he slipped habitually through the shadows, avoiding patches of ghostly light. A faint fragrance of roses teased his senses as he passed near the garden. The scent invoked some unnamed emotion from deep within but just as it began to stir, he roughly shoved it back down. He'd done enough reminiscing for one evening.

His waiting horse nickered softly at his approach, sensitive ears flicking back with a twitch. Erik greeted the animal with a gentle stroke on the sloped head. Unloosing the rein, he led the horse by foot through the trees. He didn't want to start riding until he reached the main road.

The front area of the house was packed with carriages. Coachmen and valets mingled about, chattering and guffawing as they waited for the party to disperse.

As Erik passed by, he slowed, his attention caught by a small disturbance.

"I'm telling you, they'll be starting to come out any minute. The answer is no."

"I'll double the price!"

"Mr. Wentworth, please. Just go back inside and wait for your parents. If you still want to make your visit, I'll drop you off on the way back. I'm not about to leave now."

"Bloody hell!"

Erik regarded the petulant boy with contempt. _So. David Wentworth._ Melodie hadn't revealed much about her past but she had mentioned previously living with the Wentworths and that Henry remained on staff with them. He could now tie some of the loose threads together.

With a jolt, he realized the boy was heading almost directly his way. He angled further into the nest of trees, throwing the hood of his cape over his head.

David was muttering under his breath and staggering just a touch, holding out an arm to help balance himself.

As he ventured deeper into the secluded area, Erik had to wonder what his purpose was. When he received his answer, his eyes rolled and he quickly averted his gaze. The man was relieving himself.

When he finished, he turned and stumbled, steadying himself with an outstretched hand against a tree trunk. Propping himself against it, he fished inside the inner breast pocket of his dresscoat and withdrew a small flask. Tipping his head back, he gulped greedily. He appeared in no hurry to leave.

As Erik stared at him, he was vaguely aware the itch beneath the mask had returned. His breaths grew shallow as an icy calm descended upon him.

How easy it would be to kill the boy.

It would be swift. Painless. Perhaps too merciful for one who dared to ogle and harass an innocent woman.

He needed no weapons. Not even his trusty lasso. Not when he had the use of both of his capable hands.

The hands flexed unconsciously within the confines of his gloves as he stood there, locked in an internal battle. Yes, the boy was arrogant, foolish, and gravely needed to be taught some manners. That didn't mean he deserved to die.

_But seeing his blood spilled would bring you some satisfaction. Isn't that what you were seeking tonight?_

The unbidden thought confused him, beads of sweat popping out on his forehead. No, that wasn't what he'd sought in coming here. What was wrong with him?

Tiny pinpricks of fear stabbed at him relentlessly as he recognized what was happening. It was the beginnings of that sickening downward spiral that reduced him to blind, murderous rage. In the past, he'd allowed the fury to consume him wholly, like a fire blazing through a forest and leaving nothing but smouldering ash in its wake. It would be so easy to succumb to that slippery descent here and now.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he fought against the seductive call of madness, for that was what lay at the bottom of the well. If he were to fall into its black depths again, his fate would be sealed. He struggled to think of something good. Something filled with light that would help ease his mind.

_Christine…_

No! She was dead to him. She couldn't help him. _Think of something comforting._

He almost laughed. Almost sobbed. There had been no comforts in his life.

_A woman sits at the piano; brown eyed and freckled, her hair spilling in silken waves down her back. She smells like a clear, spring day – sunny and warm. Her graceful hands fly across the keys and the beauty of her music wraps around him, giving him comfort and peace._

Erik opened his eyes, feeling dazed and weary, as if he'd just trudged off the battlefield. He had no idea how much time had passed – a minute or an hour? His gaze came to rest on David, who yet remained slumped against the same tree. It couldn't have been overly long then. As he continued to regard the young man, he was relieved to find his emotions on a more even keel. There was no question of his intense dislike, even without having met the man. But the blood red haze that drove him to kill no longer possessed him. He shuddered, exhaling a shaky breath. It was time to head for home.

A twig snapping beneath his foot sounded like a gunshot in the night air.

Even as David's head swivelled towards him, he'd turned and jumped onto the saddle in one fluid motion. With a swift jab of his heels into the stallion's sides, they were off and running with startling speed. The powerful hooves kicked up clomps of grass, then great clouds of dust as they veered onto the wide dirt path that led to the road.

Although voices of alarm were raised and hollered, they soon faded into the distance. The hood had blown back off his head, his cape fluttering and snapping behind him. He pressed his face closer to the straining muscles of the horse's neck but didn't look back.

He should have learned that lesson long ago.

* * *

A/N: The longest chapter yet. Thanks to RancidMelody for a list of French translations.

To Mariel Yuy: Yes, the fic will be rather lengthy (at least, that's my intention right now). I wish there was a "squee" at the door. LOL! Thanks for your especially thoughtful review.

To all my reviewers, thank you for continuing to read and review. I know some portions of this chapter were redundant from the previous one, but I wanted to show the evening from different perspectives. Hope you enjoyed it anyway.


	9. Ch 8: What New Surprises Lie In Store

"Isabel, what time is it?" Melodie asked.

"Ten minutes since the last time you asked me," Isabel replied, dry humour evident in her voice.

"Sorry."

Sitting at a table in the kitchen, Melodie kept her hands busy by folding a pile of napkins. She was waiting for Peter to arrive – the boy that Erik would be sending to collect his earnings. She'd asked the butler to have him come around to the back door when he arrived. It was past eleven in the morning now and still no sign of him.

She heard Isabel bustling about, the metallic clang of pots ringing soundly. "No, not that one," Isabel directed one of the kitchen maids. "No, no, on your right. Yes, thank you. So when was this boy supposed to arrive?"

Melodie realized the question was directed at her. "Oh, just sometime this morning," she said vaguely.

By way of explanation, she'd told Isabel that she'd recruited a new student. He would meet her here and then they would go together to the school. A terribly weak tale but so far, no one had questioned her about it.

As her nimble fingers neatly folded the squares of cloth, her mind wandered. Last night had been an eventful evening, to say the least. The thrill of her moment in the spotlight hadn't quite left her yet. She'd caught herself several times this morning with a dreamy smile on her face. Each time, she'd quickly composed herself and wondered if anyone had noticed.

At the loud knock on the door, she got to her feet, hoping this would be the boy. The door creaked open and Isabel's voice rang out. "What can I do for you?"

"I'm looking for Melodie," piped up a child's voice. Not having reached adolescence yet, the pitch was high and reedy.

Melodie reached for her cane and reticule, moving swiftly to Isabel's side. "Are you Peter?" she asked.

"That's me."

"Thank you, Isabel. I'll see you later."

Before any further comments or questions could arise, she stepped outside. Stretching out one hand, she found a rather bony shoulder and steered him away. "Come, Peter, let's go."

"But, I…"

"No arguments, now," she interrupted. "Follow me."

Waiting until the slam of the door was heard behind her, she halted on the path and knelt down to his level.

"Are you blind?" he asked.

"Yes, but not completely. If I get close, like this…" She paused, leaning forward until his small face swam into focus. He was terribly thin, with cheekbones that were much too prominent beneath his skin. Intelligent blue eyes stared back at her warily. They were quite striking compared to the curly black hair that framed his face. "…I can see quite well. You're a handsome boy."

He grinned at the compliment, twin dimples appearing in his cheeks. "You're pretty, too. Can I have the money now?"

She patted the reticule dangling from her arm. "I have it here but there is a slight change in plans. You're going to take me to Erik."

Peter lost his smile, shaking his head vigorously. "He won't like that. He told me to get the money."

"I know, but it's very important that I talk with him in person. He'll understand."

Pursing his lips, the boy looked doubtful at that statement. "He might get mad. He's not very nice when he's mad."

"Well, I'll make sure he gets mad at me, not you. I'll tell him that I wouldn't give you the money unless you took me to him. How does that sound?"

Seeming to be at a loss, Peter merely shrugged.

Melodie interpreted the motion as acquiescence. "Good. It's settled then." Rising to her feet, she brushed at her skirt, hopefully ridding it of some of the dust. The top of his head came to just below her shoulder, so there wasn't too vast of a height difference. She was able to take his arm comfortably. "I'll be counting on you to lead me, Peter. Remember, I can only see up close so when we're walking, I really am blind. You'll be taking me through areas I'm not familiar with, so I'm putting all my trust in you to lead me safely. Can you do this?"

She waited for a response but none seemed to be forthcoming. "Are you nodding?" she asked finally.

"Oh, sorry." He sounded sheepish. "I forgot. I can do it."

Patting his shoulder, she smiled. "I knew I could count on you. Let's go."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

She had known the journey would be long. Erik had once warned her of a three quarter hour walk but that was probably at his pace. At the careful rate they were going now, Peter told her they had thirty minutes left in their travels and that was after they'd already been on the road for an hour.

The boy had proven to be good company. Though a little shy at first, he'd soon grown to be quite the chatterbox. Even without being asked, he described the sights to her as they walked along, telling her of landmarks they were approaching and anything out of the ordinary. A carriage with a broken wheel by the side of the road had made for interesting commentary. His animated description of the hapless coachman surrounded by furious, sniping old ladies had her giggling with helpless laughter.

She also learned something of his life. His full name was Peter Bain and he had just turned ten recently. Since his mother had died several years ago, he lived alone with his father about a mile away from Erik's home. He'd been climbing a tree on Erik's property when they first met and apparently, Erik hadn't exactly been friendly. Then, upon passing the recluse's home one day, the masked man had ventured out and asked him to go into the city to fetch him a few items. That's how their little business arrangement had started.

"Now he's teaching me how to read," Peter said proudly.

That declaration caused Melodie's eyebrow to lift. "Oh? You don't go to school, then?"

"No. I have to help my dad with the farm."

"I see."

So Erik had some kindness in him after all, though it was well hidden beneath that cold, inscrutable veneer. "What else can you tell me about him?"

"He used to live in Paris. He's always playing the piano. He has a dog that used to be my dad's dog, but now he calls her Sascha. Erm…oh, and most important, never ask why he wears a mask. That makes him really mad."

A goodly piece of advice she would strive to remember. She was rather confused about the dog issue but decided not to bother questioning about it. Her legs were starting to grow weary and she would have dearly loved to sit down and rest for a while. The scratchiness in her throat indicated she was quite parched as well. Honestly, she hadn't planned very well for this impromptu trip. It had seemed to be a very good idea late last night, while she'd been wracking her brain in trying to find some solutions.

Perhaps she should be more concerned with what she would say to Erik when she arrived at his home. Somehow, she had the feeling her presence wouldn't exactly be greeted with open arms.

"We're almost there," Peter informed her, with a slight tug on the sleeve of her blouse. "There's the gate. He's probably watching us from the window."

Her heart started thudding erratically as she nervously licked her lips. All the clever words she had rehearsed so carefully the previous night seemed to have leaked out of her ears. Perhaps this had not been one of her best plans. However, it would be impossible to turn back now, so on she marched with a stiff spine.

Peter left her side to unlatch the gate and it swung open with a groan of protest. Taking her arm once more, he guided her up the walk.

"Is he at the window?" she asked, speaking out of one side of her mouth.

"No, he's at the door. Hi, Erik!"

She imagined him framed within the doorway, tall and imposing and probably scowling fiercely through his mask. When he finally responded, his voice was every bit as brittle as she'd feared it would be.

"This wasn't our agreement." The icy waves emanating from him were almost tangible.

"I know but…"

Melodie spoke up, cutting off the boy's plaintive speech. "This was my doing, Erik. I needed to speak with you, so I told Peter I wouldn't hand over the money unless he brought me to you. If there's anyone to be upset with, it's me."

Another drawn out silence ensued and though the urge to squirm was almost overwhelming, she managed to squelch it and remain outwardly at ease.

"Peter, come here," he ordered at last.

The now-familiar little arm slipped out of her grasp and she could only wonder what Erik was up to. "What do you intend?" she asked. Though she didn't want to believe the boy was about to be punished, the thought had certainly crossed her mind.

"It's none of your concern!" Erik barked gruffly.

Gnawing at her lip, she could only stand there, waiting and wondering. The door had been left open and though she could hear murmurings from inside, she could discern none of their conversation. It seemed to be a civil interaction, though she kept her ears alerted for any sign of anxiety on the part of the child.

When Peter emerged, he sounded quite excited. "Look, Melodie! Sorry, I keep forgetting. Erik gave me lots of money and some books. He's going away."

"Peter, you should go," Erik said.

He was leaving? A dozen questions immediately flitted through her mind. Her task today might be even more difficult than she'd anticipated.

When she next heard the boy's voice, it was muffled, as if pressed against cloth. "Are you coming back?"

The man's response was surprisingly gentle. "I don't know. Go on, now. Don't let your father see those books. And don't forget the coach."

Melodie's ears perked up at his last statement. "What coach?"

"The one that will be taking you home shortly."

"But I've come all this way! Don't you at least want to know why?"

"Not particularly."

The detached way in which he spoke was getting the best of her temper. A slow heat infused her cheeks and she knew they must have started to glow brightly. "I refuse to be turned away like this. We have unfinished business to conduct and I simply had to do it in person. I realize it was rather rude of me to show up here and for that, I apologize. Just give me a half hour of your time. That's all I request."

Yet again, the answer was delayed in coming. "Very well." He sounded resigned but reluctant. "A half hour it is. Peter, make sure the coach isn't late."

Melodie felt the brush of a body run past her and she turned as Peter called out his goodbye. She raised one hand in an automatic wave, then slowly pivoted back to face the man who was no doubt staring daggers at her. Each second that ticked by had her growing increasingly uncomfortable. It had become a battle as to who could hold the silence the longest.

Having had enough of the game, she gave in first. "Well, are you going to invite me in? I'm tired and wouldn't mind a drink of water."

He answered with a low rasp. "Enter at your own risk, mademoiselle."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Leaving the door open, Erik turned and strode away, trying to keep his jumbled emotions in check. Not long ago, he'd been pacing edgily back and forth, wondering why Peter was so delayed. The cynical side of him had been convinced that the lad had betrayed him, taking his share of the salary from Melodie and scurrying away with it. His more rational side had argued that Peter wasn't capable of such a deed. It was more likely that he'd been robbed or perhaps met with some unforeseen incident.

In fact, that unpredictable event had been Melodie's interference. Once again, she'd managed to catch Erik completely by surprise. When he'd spied her approaching the gate on Peter's arm, he'd shaken his head with disbelief. Any ounce of pleasure in seeing her again had been overridden by a fierce and swelling anger that she would dare to invade his privacy.

He glanced about his abode, attempting to view it through the eyes of a first-time visitor. Only belatedly did he realize it would not matter much to this particular guest. Since she had a mere thirty minutes of time available to her, he doubted she would be peering too closely at her surroundings. He had never bothered to add any decorative touches. Compared to the elegant opulence of his former lair in the opera house, his current home was positively stark, albeit functional.

When she stumbled with a slight clumsiness over the threshold, he remained where he was, arms slack at his sides but shoulders tightened with unease. Closing the door behind her, she then appeared to hesitate, seeming uncertain what to do next.

As if a sudden thought had occurred to her, she snapped open the clasp of her reticule and rummaged inside. A small bag was thrust out and held in mid air.

"Your portion of the commission," she said.

Wordlessly, he took the offered bag, carefully avoiding any contact with her slender fingers. Blinking twice, she cleared her throat, sounding strangely croaky. "May I…have that glass of water?"

He obliged in his continued shroud of silence, heading towards the kitchen. Flinging the bag onto the table, it fell with a dull thud. A generous portion of cool water that he'd collected from the brook this morning was poured into a glass. The curiosity of her visit was nearly overwhelming him but he drew back into his shell of detached disinterest as a purely reflexive action. Locking on to his resentment with a fierce grip, he was ready to return to his waiting houseguest.

He found her in the chair by the hearth – his chair – but considering it was the only one in the room, he allowed it. He'd chosen this particular chair because it was big and overstuffed, holding his large frame comfortably. Perched just on the edge of it, her face pale and lips rather pinched, she looked anything but comfortable.

"Water," he advised, pressing the glass to her hand.

She grasped it eagerly. "Thank you."

As she drank with amusingly unladylike gulps, he took a stance with feet planted apart and arms crossed over his chest. He waited impatiently until she'd drunk her fill. "Need I remind you that time is running short?"

Apparently having already discovered the small table adjacent to her seat, she set down the glass with ease. "I know. It seems, however, that everything I'd thought out so carefully last night has escaped me. I'm not sure where to begin." She paused to take a breath, perhaps in an attempt to calm her nerves. "Actually, I do know where to begin, but I must insist that you be truthful. I need to know that I can trust you."

His mouth twisted in a sardonic parody of a smile. "I find it amusing that you insist on truthfulness when you've become the master of deception."

Based on the further pursing of her lips and narrowed eyes, he assumed his verbal arrow had struck its mark.

"I'm not proud of the lies by any means but they were borne out of necessity. However, I won't tolerate anything but honesty between us if we're to…" Cutting herself off in mid-speech, she sucked in a breath, looking positively dismayed. "I…I'm getting ahead of myself. Erik, please, just tell me the truth. Were you at the Grayson's estate last night?"

The question caught him off guard. Had she simply guessed that he was the elusive phantom that had plagued David Wentworth's liquor-induced hallucination? Or had David revealed the sight of a figure cloaked in black, riding like a madman with the devil at his heels into the inky night?

He was mildly surprised by the reply that he voiced. "Yes, I was there."

She nodded briefly, her expression pensive. "Thank you for being honest. Did you take in the performance?"

"Yes."

"You must have wondered what I was doing at the piano. The pianist injured her hand so I volunteered to step in. I was petrified but once I started playing, it was gloriously thrilling."

Her playing had moved him tremendously but he made no comment on it now. "Did you happen to view the inside of the ballroom?" she asked.

"I did."

"Describe it to me."

"I hardly think we have time to…"

"Please," she interrupted, her voice beseeching. But it was the eyes that drew him in. Dark, velvety pools that gazed upwards with such warmth and longing, he found the hold on his anger slipping just a little out of his grasp.

With a disgruntled snort, he stepped closer to the empty hearth, leaning back against the mantel in a more relaxed pose. He cast his mind back to the previous night. "High, vaulted ceilings with a curving arch. The walls adorned with a rich mixture of deep reds and glinting golds. The floor, a highly polished cherry wood, so smooth and gleaming one could glide effortlessly on its surface. White marble statues stood at their posts and angels took flight among the clouds on the painted mural. Three large crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, the reflecting light sparkling like starbursts all around. And then there was music that infused the room with excitement and joy, building to a stunning climax before vanishing into thin air on a single, sweet note of the violin."

The last statement was as close as he could get to admitting that she had made the right choice in how to conclude her composition. While he had more the flair for the dramatic, it sometimes swayed on the side of heavy-handedness. Her touch was more sensitive and delicate.

Wide eyes transfixed in a dream-like state, she gradually seemed to pull herself back to reality. "You're very eloquent. Thank you for indulging me. So, you were inside the ballroom, then?"

"No. I stood by one of the doorways on the terrace."

"Oh. The terrace. So, you saw…did you see…"

"I saw everything," he stated succinctly.

Her hands furled in her lap, fingers winding around each other compulsively. "Everything," she repeated dully. "So, you already know about the next commission."

"Yes. Congratulations."

Rather than replying with a standard, automatic 'thank you', she pressed on with another inquiry.

"Peter hinted that you're leaving. Is that true?"

"It is."

"Where? For how long?"

He supposed the questions were reasonable enough and yet, he could provide no solid answers. "I'm not certain. I've always held a fondness for Italy. I may start there and see where fate leads me."

"But why? Why leave? What are you running away from?"

Her innocent prying was beginning to grate on his nerves. "There is nothing that compels me to stay," he uttered shortly.

"What if I gave you a reason? I need assistance in writing the symphony. Not just the physical writing of the notes. I suppose any capable student of music could do that but I've thought long and hard on this and it's not what I want. There are far more technicalities involved in something of this scale and I'm afraid I may have gotten in over my head. I thought…that we could work together. Truly work together as a team. Co-composers, if you will. Our musical styles are very different but I think they would complement and balance each other. You're also more experienced and I could learn so much from you."

He couldn't help sneering at her last statement. "Your attempt at flattery is much too transparent, my dear. It's a ridiculous notion and if this is the reason for your uninvited visit, you've wasted your time."

"If it makes a difference, there's a great deal of money involved. Especially if…"

As she trailed off, his irritation bloomed into full-blown annoyance. "If what?" he snapped.

"If Michael Blythe makes an appearance at the gala."

"There is no Michael Blythe."

"On the contrary, there was quite the flurry of speculation last night that he was seen galloping away from the Grayson's property. It seems he couldn't resist the debut of _Celebration._"

_Ah, yes, David hadn't been the only one to witness his rather dramatic exit from the grounds; no doubt he'd caused a stirring ruckus of rumours._ It took him a moment to piece together what she was hinting at and when the connection was made, he stared at her with blatant disbelief. "What are you suggesting? That I assume the identity of this fictional composer?"

"I know it sounds mad but it could work."

A harsh laugh burst out of his throat but it held no humour. Either she was idiotically naïve or an insane fool – perhaps a hearty mixture of both. With two long strides, he closed in on her, broad hands gripping the armrests on either side. She shrunk back in the seat, effectively trapped within the cushiony confines of the chair as he planted himself inches from her nose.

"Given your poor vision, perhaps you've forgotten that I possess a face that does not condone itself to public viewing?" he snarled.

Though her eyes reflected startled discomfort at his nearness, she managed to hold her ground, gazing back at him without flinching. "Of course I haven't forgotten. But your mask has already been seen and added an air of mystery to the gossip. Everyone was talking about it last night. But, truly, if you don't want to do it, that's fine. It's your decision to make." She paused, her tone becoming coaxing once more. "I…still hope that we can work together. Would it be so terrible? Do you not think we could write something exquisite between the two of us?"

He had invaded her space in order to intimidate but now, he was the one caught in the invisible pull of those dark eyes. She was so close, so very close. He could hear her rapid, shallow intakes of breath – a sign that she wasn't as calm as she outwardly projected.

Wrenching himself away, he retreated to the safety of the mantel, rubbing at the throb in his left temple. "You don't know what you ask," he said, allowing the weariness to creep into his voice. He struggled to regain some semblance of reasoning and logic in order to prove how unfounded her request was. "Where would we work? Have you thought of that? I can't imagine you'd want to return to the Empire Theatre after the last episode."

"I have thought of that," she said slowly. "You once offered your home as a possibility."

"Yes, but it's too far for you to travel. I presume you found it so today. Unless you mean to take a coach?"

"No, it wouldn't work. I've already started to neglect my lessons with Grace. I'm not giving her the full attention she deserves in order for me to continue living with the Anniston's. Writing this symphony will be a full time endeavour. So…I…thought I could live here…with you."

Having been regarding the bare wall with unseeing eyes, he now whirled around, gaping at this audacious woman. "What did you just say?"

Her next words flowed in a rush, as if she feared she would lose her courage in voicing them if stopping to think rationally. "I'm aware of how incredibly forward this sounds and I'm not usually so bold. I know you must think me mad but please, just consider it. I spent all of last night thinking about how to make this work and absurd as it sounds, this makes the most sense. We would keep our relationship strictly professional, of course. The commission shall be split evenly between us. And should you decide to make an appearance at the gala, the extra money would be yours."

Rising to her feet, she took a few steps towards him, continuing her fervent speech. "You've been terribly aloof with me during our time together but I've seen the genius in your work. I know it's there. And though I tried to convince myself that I could hire anyone to simply record my notes, it's not what I desire. I want this symphony to be something special. Something extraordinary. We could do it together if you're able to open up and trust me."

Realizing his mouth was still parted with shock, he clamped it shut, grinding his teeth until his jaw ached. How ironic that the previous night, thoughts of Melodie had been able to calm the stormy seas of his soul and yet here and now, she managed to toss him back into an ocean of writhing emotions. He was leaving tomorrow. Plans had already been set into motion and he'd resigned himself to whatever fate awaited him on his journey. How dare she come into his home and tempt him with this outrageous proposition. Oh yes, he was sorely tempted, no question. To focus solely on composing again would be wondrous indeed but even as his heart lifted in contemplation, an inner voice laughingly mocked him. It would never work. He could never allow her to see him for what he really was.

"Erik?"

Her voice was small and questioning. With a muted roar of frustration, he launched himself at her, grabbing her arms and hauling her close.

Inclining his head to her level, he spoke through clenched teeth, piercing her with a glare filled with fury and agony. "Don't presume that you know me. You think me a musical genius? You're right. But these hands of mine have done more than write music. You don't want to know what I'm capable of. And you damned well don't want me to 'open up', as you so delicately put it. If I truly revealed myself to you in all my glory, not just what lies beneath the mask but within my soul, you would run screaming into the night. Is that what you want? Is it?"

As he rasped the last two words, he shook her like a rag doll, her head bobbing precariously on her neck. Although the foggy haze of his anguish was thick and swirling, he eventually registered her trembling lips and wet, glistening eyes. The naked fear in them stabbed deep into his gut, twisting his insides with reproachful self-disgust. He was frightening her and though he supposed that had been his intent, a wave of shame washed over him. At this moment, he was no better than David Wentworth.

Releasing her abruptly, he backed away, hands curling into balled fists at his sides. "I'm sorry. I'm behaving like a monstrous beast. But you must realize that what you ask is an impossibility. Leave now. Run. And forget you ever met me."

He expected her to flee, to move as fast as her legs could carry her through the door. Instead, she stood utterly still for a while, the tears receding from her eyes without falling. Her expression shifted to one of troubled sadness as she finally turned around to gather up her cane and reticule with mechanical movements.

"I'm sorry too. Sorry that you're choosing to run away. I don't know what horrors lie in your past but you can't let them consume who you are now. You may run as far as you like but you'll never escape yourself. I'll see myself out and wait for the coach outside."

When she had gone, the room seemed cold and devoid of life, as if his own flesh and blood were not warm enough to sufficiently permeate the space. He marvelled at how someone he had known for a mere few weeks could have become such a presence in his life. Her parting words haunted him, nagging doubts starting to plague his resolve to leave.

Seething with frustration, he tore off the mask and threw it at his feet, barely able to resist the urge to crush it into oblivion with his heel. As he flung himself into the chair, he closed his eyes, hunching forward with his head resting in his hands. Such indecisiveness was still new to him and he cared not for the feeling. This human weakness had never ailed him during all the years in the opera house. But now, it drained him of the power and control that he longed to regain in this still unwritten chapter of his life.

When at last he lifted his head, he still had no answers. The mask stared upwards with its sightless eye, a blind and empty socket that foretold no visions of the future.

He would have to make that decision himself.

* * *

A/N: As always, thanks to my reviewers. It's lovely that I have a few new readers. To answer some specific questions, there is a hint to the French swear word "Salaud" in the very next sentence, ie: "Salaud," _he cursed. If that bastard struck her…_

And yes, I'm single, so 'mademoiselle' is just fine.

Also of note, I have a beta now, the wonderful **penkitten** – many thanks.


	10. Ch 9: Notes

Although Melodie usually didn't linger at the piano after finishing a lesson with Grace, she found herself doing just that. A particular passage was running through her head and she ran her fingers lightly over the keys, testing it out. As of yet, she hadn't formally started writing the symphony but fragments of themes sometimes popped into her mind at random moments.

Tapping out the newly created melody, her thoughts veered in a completely different direction – Erik. It had been three days since her impromptu visit and she could only assume that he had left, perhaps heading towards Italy, as he had mentioned. Whenever she looked back on that day – and it was almost constantly on her mind – she wondered if she should have approached the situation differently. And if she had, would it have made any difference? It was quite obvious that he was a tortured man, haunted by a past that still claimed him in its tenacious grip. She had never witnessed such raw emotions in a single person before; a cacophonic blend of anger, sorrow, passion, coldness and desperation seeped from his every pore. It was both frightening and fascinating. Her pulse quivered even now when she remembered how he had held her so tightly, his eyes burning with liquid fire so intense, she'd been afraid to breathe.

She was now at a loss as to what to do. Her proposal to live in the man's home had been borne out of desire to work with him, yes, but also out of desperation. With a little over three months to complete the symphony, it would require all of her focus. Though the Annistons treated her wonderfully, she couldn't reveal the nature of her composing to them. And it was true that Grace's lessons were already suffering because of the distraction. She required access to a piano, free reign to write and someone to record the notes – preferably someone who possessed the equivalent of Erik's supreme talents, as she truly would need some aid in the framework of composing such a complex work. _Really, was that so much to ask?_

The attempt at lightness did not help to ease her mood, only making her sigh with gloomy discontent. Although Erik had never volunteered to assist her beyond the task of writing the notes of her creation, when she had pressed him for more, he'd always delivered beyond her expectations. Their styles were vastly different but that didn't detract from his uncanny ability to understand the essence of what she was trying to accomplish in any phrase or section. When she'd stumbled on particularly troublesome areas, he'd been able to guide her towards her goal or sometimes in completely new directions she'd never even considered.

Her proposition to Erik had not been an easy one to make. She'd had little to no sleep the previous night, tossing and turning every thought in her mind until she'd almost made herself ill. At long last, the deciding factor had not been his impressive technical ability. It had been that brief but momentous glimpse into the very depth of his being, when they'd sat side by side at the piano, taking turns in sharing pieces of their compositions – pieces of themselves. Even now, she could hear the hauntingly beautiful passage so clearly, as if Erik sat hunched beside her like a phantom ghost. His music drew her in as nothing else ever had, forming an invisible link between them. For a while, she'd tried to convince herself that the bond was imagined; that it wasn't worth the effort to attempt to crack his protective outer shell. She understood now that she was only deceiving herself. The connection between them and their music did indeed exist, but it appeared that Erik had decided to sever it before the fragile threads had a chance to truly cohere.

"Melodie?"

Startled by the intrusion, her fingers slipped and an unintentionally discordant chord rang out. Wincing, she looked towards the voice she recognized as the butler. "Yes?"

"Sorry to disturb you. A young lad named Peter is at the door with a message for you. I asked him to leave the note with me but he insisted on delivering it to you in person."

Surprise and hope tugged at her as she rose up from the bench. "Thank you, Robert. I'll take care of it."

As she maneuvered her way through the room and down the main hallway to the front door, she sternly told herself not to get her hopes up. It might simply be a farewell letter from Erik. Perhaps it wasn't even from Erik at all, though she couldn't fathom who else would send Peter here. With a last calming breath, she swung the door open. "Peter?"

"Hello, Melodie," replied the chipper voice. "I brought a letter from Erik."

The textured paper of an envelope was pressed into her waiting hand. "Thank you," she acknowledged. "Is…Erik gone now on his trip?"

"No, he's still there. But he looked really strange."

"Strange?"

"Yeah. His clothes were all wrinkled and he had hair on his face, kind of like my dad, but not as thick. I thought maybe he was sick but he said he wasn't. He says you need to read the letter and then write back to him. Will it take you long?"

"Oh, uh…" A little flustered, she took a few seconds to respond coherently. "I'm not sure. Could you come back in a half hour? I should have something for you by then."

"All right. I'll be back."

She heard him hop down the steps, the scurrying sound of his small feet soon fading into the distance. With more haste than she usually walked about with, she rushed up the stairs and into her chambers, closing the door securely behind her. The curtains had already been parted this morning, allowing every possible bit of light to flood the room. Taking a seat at her desk, she picked up the envelope with both hands, slowly lifting it higher until her name was legible. It was written in a large, loopy hand and she allowed herself a tiny smile, thinking that he knew her name after all.

Tearing into it, she withdrew and unfolded the single sheet, once again positioning it fairly close to her eyes. However, she was pleasantly surprised to find the handwriting overly large once again. It had been a thoughtful gesture on his part, knowing that reading was a painful strain on her vision. With an almost nervous anticipation, she read.

_Dear Melodie,_

_I apologize for the lengthy time that has passed since our last meeting but I have had much to consider. I will not bore you with the details of the convoluted means to which I came to a decision. All you need know is that one has been made but the final decision rests with you. After my abominable behaviour, you might have reconsidered the wisdom of your proposition. I assure you, I am capable of behaving like a gentleman. However, in the interest of honesty, which seems so important to you, I feel I must warn you that I possess a temper. It has not reared itself often as of late but when it does, it can be wholly unpleasant, as you yourself have witnessed. It is ingrained within me, I'm afraid, so I shall make no promises that it will never reappear again. I do humbly promise, however, that I shall strive to remain the gentleman in your presence._

_I would be honoured to work with you in the writing of your symphony. Should you still wish to reside with me, I shall require five days in which to ready my home. Please make your choice known in a letter and give it to Peter._

_Should this be our final correspondence, I wish you well in your endeavours. _

_Cordially,_

_Erik_

_P.S. I have chosen to use the French spelling of your name, which is more pleasing to my eye. I hope this does not offend._

In total, she read the letter three times in succession before finally putting it down, her face flushed with a combination of excitement and anxiety. He had actually accepted! Although she had been hopeful he would, it still came as somewhat of a shock. Now the final choice was hers alone to make. Could she really go through with this fantastic plan?

Reaching down, she slid open the drawer and removed a sheet of letter paper, ink, and her pen. She sat unmoving for many minutes, one elbow braced on the desk and gripping the slim writing instrument fiercely until her fingers grew numb. Still, she wrote not a word, chewing methodically on her inner lip. At last, dipping into the well of ink, she began to write.

_Dear Erik,_

_Thank you for your letter and granting my request. After considerable thought, I have decided that my proposal is much too forward and foolish. I'm not sure what possessed me to even consider…_

The familiar scratching of pen to paper came to a halt as she stared at the fresh, wet ink; where the nib jabbed into the grainy surface, a black stain bled, spreading outwards in a thin trail.

_Mellie, you weak-kneed coward._

Angry with herself, she yanked open the drawer and withdrew yet another sheet of paper. Slamming it shut, her fingers jammed between the edges of wood, sending shooting pains through the sensitive digits.

"Bloody hell!" she yelped, her other hand frantically clawing at the round knob of the drawer until it jerked open. Leaping to her feet, she spun around, cradling her injured hand against her chest. When the acute, sparkling pain subsided to a manageable ache, she flexed her fingers and found they all wiggled as they should. Cursing her carelessness, she flounced once more onto the chair, took pen in hand and proceeded to write with a non-stop frenzy. When she'd finished, her forehead was damp, her cheeks no doubt rosy with a heated flush. Not even sure of what she'd written, she thought it prudent to read it over.

_Dear Erik,_

_I am very pleased that you have decided to grant my request and would be honoured to take residence with you while we work together. I sense that you are an intensely private person and know this cannot have been an easy decision for you. I do have one request to make in the interest of honesty between us. Please do not feel that you must tread so carefully in my presence. I am well aware of your temper but understand that it is just one facet of your complex nature. I would not wish for you to act anything but yourself in your own home. I wholeheartedly believe that we must be true to ourselves in order for our partnership to reach its full potential. I hope you feel the same._

_I shall arrive at your door in five days. Should you require additional time, please send word via Peter. I look forward to embarking on this project with you._

_Sincerely,_

_Melodie_

_P.S. As you can see, your chosen spelling of my name is correct. Henry has always held a fondness for all things French, unlike most of the British. I hope this does not offend._

Melodie regarded her own writing with a raised eyebrow; the strokes were spiky and sloppy, most unlike her usual careful penmanship. But the words were above all else, honest and spoken from the heart.

As she inserted the letter into an envelope, her hand trembled just a touch, betraying the nervous energy that tingled through her blood. She was really going through with this!

Shivering with a tense delight, she made the final markings on the front of the envelope with a bold and deliberate flourish: Erik.

The name invoked a myriad of sensations that twirled like a jewelled kaleidoscope in her mind: His deep, lyrical voice. The sorrowful, beautiful strains of his music. Warm hands that offered both comfort and brute strength. His unique smell of clean and spicy masculinity.

The dizzying and fragmented flashes finally came to rest on the hypnotic beauty of his eyes – the window into his soul. Only twice had she seen them; the first time coldly judgmental, the last time filled with such anguished despair, she'd been frightened for him. What could he have done in the past to inflict himself with such unimaginable suffering?

Although she would undoubtedly come to understand more about Erik over the course of the next few months, she wondered if that answer would ever be revealed.

And perhaps, she conceded, in the spirit of ultimate honesty, she did not wish to know the answer.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

As the carriage lurched along at a steady pace, Henry stared out the window at the passing scenery. Though the countryside was quaintly picturesque with its rolling green hills dotted with farmhouses and the occasional herd of fluffy sheep, he saw none of it.

Instead, he found himself reanalysing Melodie's letter in his mind, turning and examining it from every angle like some ancient relic in a historian's hands. What on earth was she thinking, moving in with a strange man? He understood that they had worked together on the composition for Mrs. Grayson, but how did one make the leap from that partnership to living in the man's home? Not only was it completely scandalous but potentially dangerous as well. She couldn't possibly know him well enough to warrant such utter trust.

Henry supposed he was partially at fault for helping to cultivate her trusting nature. She'd led a sheltered life, thanks mostly to his desire to shield her from life's harsher elements, but also due to their living arrangements. Her whole world had revolved around the Wentworth home. School had not been an option, so he had taught her to read and write. Heading the staff of the household was a full time position and thus, regrettably, he'd often left her to her own devices. She never seemed to mind the solitude, finding refuge in her bountiful imagination and of course, her music. When David started receiving lessons from a private tutor, Albert generously allowed her to participate as well. Like a thirsty sponge, she soaked up knowledge in history, geography, literature, and even a little French. Though none of these subjects were of any practical use, it still pleased him to know her horizons were being expanded, if only in the academic sense.

As she grew older, she still chose to remain close to home. The notable exception was their semi-regular outings to the theatre. She had no social life to speak of, no close friends, and yet she seemed to prefer it that way. So long as she had her music, she claimed never to be lonely.

With a slight sigh, Henry reached into the inner pocket of his coat and removed her letter. Although he could almost recite it from memory, he chose to peruse it once more.

_Dearest Henry,_

_What I am about to write will come as a shock to you. Do find a spot to sit down before you begin. Are you seated? Good. It has been three days since I moved out of the Anniston's home, under the guise of accepting a teaching position at a boarding school. I did not tell you of my plans in advance because I did not want to worry you. I write this letter from the new home of my temporary residence. I have asked Erik to work with me in the writing of the symphony and he has accepted. He has also graciously allowed me to reside in his home while we work together. It is the only way we will be able to complete it in time for the grand opening of the theatre._

_I am aware of how highly unconventional this must seem to you, but I truly feel it is a necessity in order for the symphony to be successful. Above all else, that is what is most important to me. Please do not think any less of me. I have always had your support in the past and would find any disapproval on your part a heavy burden to bear._

_I hope you will come for a visit sometime. The house is small – more on the scale of a cottage – but it is cozy and I am beginning to feel quite comfortable. Erik has been the perfect gentleman. I only ask that you let us know in advance of your visit, as I have found that Erik is not fond of surprises._

_With love,_

_Mellie_

With the letter still clutched in hand, he let it fall limply to his lap, gazing once more out the window. Whether Erik cared not for surprises was of no concern to Henry. His visit today was unannounced and intentionally so. Why should he give the man a chance to prepare himself? In catching him unaware, Henry thought he might glimpse something suspicious within the home that would otherwise have been well hidden. It was an unfair advantage, perhaps, but considering the high stakes involved – Melodie's well being – he had no qualms about sidestepping the usual polite protocols.

Lost in thought once more, he wasn't even aware that all motions had ceased and they'd reached the destination until the coachman opened the door.

"I think this is it, Mr. Blythe."

Quickly tucking the letter back into his breast pocket, Henry stepped out into the mild, sunny day, squinting against the brightness. Holding up a hand to his eyes, he gazed beyond the coachman's shoulder to the stone house just ahead.

"I'm not sure how long I'll be, but if you could wait here, Jacob."

The young man nodded. "Of course, sir."

Straightening his back, Henry felt the muscles protesting against the rather long journey he had just endured. He tugged at the lapels of his coat and smoothed away a few wrinkles, making sure he was presentable. Through the gate and up the path he walked, coming to stand in front of the wooden door. Without hesitation, he knocked sharply and waited.

The bark of a dog rang out from inside and then ceased. Several heartbeats later, the door swung inwards and he had to tilt his head upwards slightly to regard the homeowner. The man was dressed neatly in a white, ruffled shirt and black trousers, dark hair combed back with no strand out of place. Half of his brow furrowed deeply – the other was hidden behind a glaringly white mask.

Henry hoped he was successful in maintaining a carefree countenance, mentally kicking aside his shock. Melodie had told him about the mask but he'd forgotten, most likely because it had only been mentioned in passing. Whenever she did speak of Erik, she mostly talked about how she admired his musical sensibilities. He now recalled the fluttering, whispered rumours of a masked man charging away from the Grayson's estate. That had been forgotten as well, since he never paid much attention to idle gossip.

The two men locked stares for another few seconds until Erik finally broke the silence. "Henry," he acknowledged, sounding neither pleased nor upset.

Now it was Henry's turn to frown. "How do you know who I am? We haven't met before."

Clear, appraising eyes of a striking shade of green continued to regard him without so much as a blink. "Melodie has described you very accurately. I also know she wrote to you, so I expected you would be making a call. I didn't, however, think it would be so soon."

Ignoring the very subtle jab at his rather rudely abrupt appearance, Henry asked, "May I come in?"

Erik stepped back, making a slight bow and a sweeping gesture with his hand. "Please do."

Tucking his hat under his arm, Henry crossed the threshold and stood off to the side, his gaze sweeping around what he could view of the interior. His first impression was identical to a word that Melodie had used in her letter – cozy.

"Shall I take your coat and hat?"

Henry nodded, shrugging out of his coat and handing over the items. "Thank you. Is Melodie upstairs?"

"No. She actually went into town with Peter, a young boy that sometimes assists me. I expect they'll be back soon. Make yourself comfortable and I'll put on some tea."

Turning fast on his heel, Erik headed, presumably, to the kitchen. Henry slowly walked about the room before settling on one end of a couch, pushing aside a blue velvet cushion. His eye was drawn to the upright piano, positioned by a large window at the back of the room. Sunlight streamed through the glass, as if deliberately shining down upon this focal point of the home. Fresh cut flowers in a crystal vase adorned the top of the piano. Beside the instrument was a small table with two chairs. The polished surface of the table was barely visible beneath the scattered sheets of staff paper.

Noticing the quill set down by the ink well, Henry surmised that he'd interrupted Erik in the middle of writing; the quill certainly did not belong to Melodie. So it seemed the matter of composing was truly genuine. From his limited observation of things so far, nothing appeared suspect or out of the ordinary. He had to admit, however, he didn't exactly know what he was looking for. What sort of sign would indicate that anything was amiss?

Something entered his vision from the corner of his eye and he turned to look down at the newcomer. A border collie regarded him curiously, head cocked slightly to the side.

"Well, hello there," Henry said softly, extending his hand.

The dog bowed its head and then lifted it, repeating the movement several times. Intelligent, black eyes never strayed from Henry's face until finally, it approached cautiously, sniffing at his fingers. Treated to a scratching behind the ears, the animal seemed to grin, wagging its tail with hearty approval.

"I see Sascha has made a friend."

With the return of her owner, the dog immediately leapt to his side and Erik bent to pat her head.

Henry glanced up at Erik, hearing the amused tone in the man's voice. "She's lovely," he commented. "I noticed the limp. A recent injury?"

Although he thought it was a perfectly innocent question, something hardened in Erik's eyes, the same flinty emotion colouring his voice when he spoke.

"No, it was several years ago. If you want to speak to me alone, I suggest we begin. Melodie could literally walk through that door at any moment."

"Then I shall get straight to the point. Perhaps you would care to sit."

Henry watched as Erik made his way to a chair, Sascha following at his heels, his movements smooth and graceful for such a large man. It made Henry ever aware of his shorter stature and cursed frailty that advancing age had bestowed upon him. Although his body creakily reminded him that more than sixty years of his life had passed, his mind hadn't yet caught up to that fact. He hoped it never would. As he sat facing Erik, he instinctively felt that he was in formidable company. Even without speaking, the man exuded strength and virtually commanded respect. It was a little unnerving, but he only had to remind himself of why he was here to regain his focus. "I would like to know what your intentions are with Melodie."

The statement was met with a quirked eyebrow and a slight curl of the lip. "My _intentions_? I assure you, my intention is to help write this symphony and nothing more."

"And you find nothing wrong with this living arrangement?" Henry pressed.

"Perhaps you are not aware of all the facts. Melodie requested this arrangement, not me. If you have a problem with it, you should take it up with her."

"Oh, I intend to, but I wanted to speak with you first. You're telling me you did nothing to encourage this?"

"On the contrary, I tried to discourage it initially, but she can be quite persuasive."

Henry felt some of the wind ebbing from his sails; Erik certainly seemed reasonable enough. And yes, Melodie could be quite stubborn and persuasive when she put her mind to it. Perhaps he would try to get to know the man on a more personal level. That might help to ease his concerns.

"What can you tell me about yourself? I would like to get to know you better."

For the first time, Erik showed some discomfort, visibly tensing. "What do you want to know?"

"Where are you from? I detect a slight accent. French?"

"I've spent most of my life in Paris, yes."

"What made you decide to leave?"

Erik did not reply right away, glancing away for a moment before meeting Henry's eyes once more. "Monsieur, I can appreciate what you're trying to do. You obviously care for Melodie very much. But you must understand that the relationship Melodie and I have is strictly professional. We have not discussed our personal lives with each other, so it does not feel right for me to do so with you."

Rather taken aback, Henry wasn't sure what to say. He finally managed to express some disbelief. "Nothing personal at all? And yet…you're residing together?"

"It's true. We both value our privacy, strange as that may sound. For instance, I know that you are an important figure in her life – a paternal figure – but I don't quite understand the relationship. She calls you 'Henry' and has described you as a friend but somehow, I sense there is more to it than that."

This was indeed, a strange situation, and it seemed to have resulted in more questions than answers. But Henry couldn't let this go without expressing one final thought. "Very well. You've made your point, now allow me to make mine. Melodie has mentioned that you've been nothing but a gentleman. I trust that will continue, for if you ever hurt her in any way, there is nowhere in this world that you can hide. I will find you and the consequence will not be pleasant. Have I made myself clear?"

Inclining his head slightly, Erik met his gaze directly. "Very clear."

Having been quietly reclining at Erik's feet, Sascha now bound upwards and trotted towards the door, tail swishing madly. As if this were some sort of sign, Erik stood up also. "Impeccable timing," he murmured. "She's returned."

Seconds later, the door burst open and Melodie appeared, a small boy running up from behind. "Henry?" she called out.

Trying not to trip over the boy and the dog, the pair of them now rolling about on the floor, Henry approached her. "How did you know I was here?" he asked, leaning in to kiss her cheek in greeting.

"I just spoke with Jacob."

"Ahhh." He found himself nodding. Of course, she would recognize the Wentworth's coachman. It was so easy to forget how observant she was. Glancing down at her basket, he noticed some fresh vegetables. "You've gone shopping, I see," he said.

Seeming distracted, she tilted her head. "Hmmm? Oh, yes, I thought I would pick up some items for dinner. Peter, I would like you to meet a friend of mine. This is Henry."

Peter looked up, one hand in the middle of giving Sascha a belly rub, the other waving enthusiastically.

The child's toothy grin was engaging and Henry returned the smile. "Nice to meet you, Peter."

"Is Erik here?" Melodie asked.

Erik had not moved since rising from his chair, choosing to observe from a distance. Though he did not raise his voice, it easily carried across the room. "I'm here," he replied.

"Well, I suppose the two of you have had a chance to chat, then? Henry, I do wish you would have given us notice of your visit."

Henry could plainly see that she was flustered, though he wasn't sure if the colour in her cheeks was due to the sun or her emotions. Before he had a chance to respond, Erik made his opinion known.

"It's quite all right. We've managed to come to an understanding. Perhaps you would care to stay for dinner?"

Although he had to wonder if the sudden graciousness was an act, Henry declined the offer. "That's very kind but I'll have to say no. However, Melodie, I do wish to have a word with you before I leave."

Moving quickly, Erik strode to her side and plucked the basket from her grasp. "You may have your talk in here. Peter, come with me. We'll go out the back door." Without waiting for a reply, he started walking away, throwing a last command over his shoulder. "Sascha, come!"

Scrambling to her feet, the animal obediently trotted after the retreating man's back, with Peter having no choice but to follow along or be left behind.

Henry's gaze returned to Melodie and he was somewhat amused by her demeanour. With arms crossed about her chest and a vague pout of her lips, he was suddenly reminded of a much younger girl – one who knew she was about to be chastised.

"Let us sit down," he said kindly, heading towards the couch once more.

Without so much as a sigh, she sat down beside him and waited for him to begin.

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A/N: As always, thank you for the reviews. They inspire me to write. Many thanks to my beta, **penkitten**.  



	11. Ch 10: Strange, New World

Erik ambled through the expanse of field, green blades of grass rippling to and fro with the spring breeze. Although he still felt most comfortable with the dark curtain of night, he'd come to appreciate some of the advantages of daylight. For instance, it would be quite difficult to pick wildflowers while groping blindly in the dark.

Stooping down on one knee, he selected a few bunches of lavender coloured flowers, the petals tiny and impossibly delicate in his large hands. Up ahead, Peter frolicked with Sascha, the air occasionally punctuated with a sharp bark or high-pitched laughter. The tranquil setting served to put his mind at ease and he could literally feel the tension slowly ebb away. Unsure of how much time Henry required for his talk with Melodie, he decided to sit for a while.

Much had changed over the past week and a half. The last time he had awoken to someone else in his home had been that brief interlude with Christine. There was one significant difference, of course. He had lured Christine, almost in a spellbound state, to the depths of his lair. Melodie had _requested_ to reside with him, to work with him, and even to learn from him. And although he had presented her with opportunity to do so, her hand had never once strayed towards his mask – unlike the cruel, prying fingers of Christine.

The decision to allow Melodie into his home – into his life – had been an agonizing one indeed. For two nights and three days, he had tortured himself with the process. While the reasons for accepting her request were varied, there was one that stood apart from the crowd. _If _he decided to take on the identity of Michael Blythe, how wondrous it would be to attend the opening night of the theatre. _What would it be like to stand on the stage, a roar of thunderous applause surrounding you?_ It was, perhaps, a laughable fantasy, but the mere possibility of it was somehow tantalizing.

Using a portion of his commission funds, he made the interior of the house more liveable, mostly adding furniture and a few decorative touches. Although he hadn't resorted to haggling over pricing, he was satisfied with the results of his limited budget. Not fully aware that any changes had been made, Melodie had not commented on the décor, but she had been very pleased with her chambers. Only able to make an educated guess at her needs, he'd simply told her to inform him of any item she might require. So far, she had not approached him with any requests.

The extreme awkwardness of the first day of her arrival had passed but by no means were they comfortable with the living arrangement yet. Other than discussions regarding the symphony, they remained quiet, treating each other with formal politeness. It felt a little strained but not entirely unpleasant. Often catching himself staring at her, he would forcefully avert his gaze, mentally rebuking himself for the rudeness. Henry would certainly not approve of his behaviour.

Erik had been thoroughly taken by surprise by the visit although, in hindsight, he should have expected it. He'd deliberately squelched his annoyance at the intrusion, reminding himself that he was fully capable of behaving like a gentleman. Obviously, Henry cared for Melodie like a father and was equally protective. Of course he would express concern and distrust over this highly unusual situation. The unsubtle threat to his well being, should he ever harm Melodie, had both amused and touched Erik. She should consider herself lucky to have someone care for her so deeply.

"What are you doing?"

He glanced up to find Peter looking down at him with childish curiosity. "Just thinking," he replied.

"Is that for Melodie?"

Following the line of the boy's pointed index finger, he regarded the clump of purple wildflowers still clutched and forgotten in one hand. "Yes."

"Can I help?"

At Erik's nod, Peter knelt down on the grass, carefully handpicking each selection. Sascha lay stretched out by her master's side, panting with a lolling tongue, apparently worn out by the vigorous activity.

The boy's small face was set with studied concentration as he crawled about, plucking only the worthiest of flowers. Erik's attention was drawn once more to the faint bruise that darkened the hollow just beneath the child's cheekbone. He'd noticed it when Peter had first arrived to accompany Melodie into town, but he hadn't wanted to mention it in her presence.

"How did you get that bruise?" he asked bluntly.

Peter's head lifted slightly, bright eyes peeking out from behind a few errant curls, before he dropped his gaze again. "I forgot to close the gate. Some sheep got out and dad had to chase them around."

"He hit you?"

Thin shoulders shrugged in answer, as he continued to gather the flowers.

The non-verbal response was enough of an admission and Erik's jaw tightened with anger, his heart heavy with empathy. Although it had been a long time since anyone had dared raised a hand against him without facing brute retaliation, he acutely remembered how it felt to be abused as a child – the intermingled feelings of helplessness and shame. Though he would love nothing more than to confront Peter's father in a darkened alley, common sense advised him to refrain from such rash measures. He had managed to live here peacefully and now that Melodie had joined him, the last thing he wanted to do was stir up trouble. However, he couldn't very well turn a blind eye to the situation either. "Does this happen often?" he asked.

"No."

Erik could not judge if the boy was answering truthfully or not, partly because all he could see at the moment was the crown of the child's head.

"Peter, stop and look at me." Speaking softly but firmly, he waited until Peter finally ceased moving about, sitting up to regard him with a wary expression. "Does your father hit you often?"

"Not a lot. Only when I do something really stupid."

There were a number of platitudes that Erik could have uttered but none of them would have been helpful or even appreciated. Instead, he found himself saying, "In a few years, you're going to be a lot bigger, a lot stronger, and not such an easy target for your father. But until then, if things ever get out of hand and you need help, I want you to come and find me, day or night. Is that understood?"

With a solemnity beyond his years, Peter nodded slowly. Starting to bend forward again, his eyes flickered to something beyond Erik's shoulder.

He leapt to his feet with a sunny grin. "There's Melodie!"

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Reduced to feeling all but ten years of age, Melodie sat with a stiff back and waited for the lecture to begin. Henry's opinion was important to her, but she reminded herself that she was a grown woman and capable of making her own decisions. Still, she worried that he disapproved of the arrangement and braced herself accordingly. The silence seemed to stretch beyond reasonable expectations and with the utmost willpower, she resisted the urge to fidget. At last, she could bear it no longer.

"Henry?" she inquired.

"Sorry, yes, I'm trying to gather my thoughts on how to proceed. I do want to talk with you and yet, what I had first intended to say no longer seems suitable."

"Why is that?"

Sounding perplexed, he said, "I don't know. I'm not even sure of what I expected to find when I came here. Erik is most…interesting and very charismatic. But I have to wonder how you can put so much faith in a man that you don't know anything about?"

It was a struggle to come up with an explanation that didn't sound completely illogical or foolish. In the end, Melodie decided she could only speak honestly. "I have no answer and I cannot explain it. If you had heard his music, you might begin to understand. As you have guessed, Erik is exceedingly complex, but I have to believe that someone capable of conjuring such beauty must have a good heart. You need not worry for my safety."

"You must know how naïve that sounds."

In fact, she _was _aware of it, but that made her conviction no less true. Never in her wildest dreams would she have imagined herself living with a strange man for the sake of writing a symphony, yet, here she was. And although he had hinted at a propensity for violence, she instinctively felt that he would never harm her – at least, not intentionally.

"I know," she said, and not knowing what else to add, simply shrugged her shoulders in a helpless gesture.

"Are you attracted to this man?"

The question was so blunt and shocking, she was only vaguely aware that her mouth had fallen open. An immediate surge of heat to her face told her that she was blushing furiously. "What? What sort of question is that?" She meant to sound indignant but the tone was terribly weak, even to her own ears.

"You get an odd sort of look in your eyes when you speak of him. It was there even when you mentioned him for the first time but now, it's noticeably stronger."

"I…I admire him, yes, but that is all," she stammered.

"He's not an unattractive man."

Refusing to even comment on that statement, she longed to throw open the windows and feel a cooling breeze on her face. Met with silence, Henry continued on. "Even the mask is strangely compelling. Do you know why he wears it?"

"No, I don't."

"Are you not curious?"

"Of course, I am!" she snapped, starting to grow irritated. "It's only natural to be curious but I'm not about to invade his privacy even further. Perhaps he'll reveal his reasons one day and perhaps not. Either way, it's his choice."

"Forgive me." He sounded truly regretful, patting one of her clenched hands. "This conversation has taken a turn I didn't intend. I'm only concerned about you."

Nodding, she felt some of the flush receding from her cheeks. "I know."

Henry expelled a long breath. "I may not have the trust in Erik that you seem to possess, but I do trust you, and your instincts have always been better than most. Mellie, I want you to promise that you'll keep in contact with me and should you ever need me, for whatever reason, you must come to me right away. You will always have a place with me, even if it means I leave the Wentworths and we venture out on our own. You are the most important person in my life. Never doubt that."

By the end of the impassioned speech, Melodie was blinking against the gathering moisture in her eyes. Wrapping her arms around him, she murmured against his ear, "I love you too."

After talking for several more minutes, she soon walked with him to the door. She had to smile when he almost set out without his hat and coat, and he shook his head at his own absentmindedness. Retrieving the items hooked onto the nearby coat rack, she gave him a final farewell kiss on the cheek.

When the door closed behind him, she turned around and leaned against it, managing to withhold a sigh, if only for her own benefit. Henry had not exactly given his blessing, but it appeared she still had his support. For that, she was greatly relieved. Some of his questions had rendered her completely off-balance and she desperately hoped that he had not been as forward when speaking with Erik.

_Was she attracted to him?_

No, it was a ridiculous notion with absolutely no validity. She was attracted to his music and talent, yes, but not the man. But if she stopped to thoroughly analyse that statement, she had to wonder how one was separated from the other. Those traits came from within Erik, were part of his very being – not isolated entities. How could she rightly claim to be attracted to one and not the other?

Bolting from the door, she tried to remember where she'd left her cane. To stand here and attempt to decipher her feelings was a waste of time. There was no need to dwell on Henry's misguided inquiries.

Recalling that she had propped the item against the couch, she made her way across the room. Given the small and relatively uncluttered layout of the house, she had quickly learned her way around. With cane in hand, she headed to the kitchen and out the back door. Having lived in the city all her life, it still felt strange to walk outside and be enveloped in such peaceful serenity. _Strange, but oh, so wonderful._ It was as if her favourite bench in the park was right at her fingertips, to be enjoyed at any moment upon stepping through the door. With such an inspiring setting, it was almost a certainty that the finished symphony would be nothing but glorious.

After several paces, she halted and listened. A bird happily chirped nearby, but she could not distinguish any sound that gave a clue to the whereabouts of Erik or Peter – not even the bark of a dog. Onwards she shuffled, locating a few trees on her journey but no other form of life.

"There's Melodie!" came an excited shout, off to the right and slightly behind her.

Knowing Peter must be watching, she turned and smiled, waving in his general direction. Though she started walking that way, she didn't get very far before the same childish voice was right under her nose. "I picked some flowers for you!"

Since she'd heard him approaching, his voice hadn't startled her, but she couldn't help flinching when the proffered flowers almost whacked her in the face. With a chuckle, she accepted the fragrant gift, inhaling the sweet scent.

"Thank you, Peter, they're lovely."

"Erik picked some too but he said I could give them to you. I have to go. It's almost supper time."

As quickly as he had come, he was now gone and although she wasn't sure, she thought his absence might have been replaced by the presence of another.

"Hello, Erik," she ventured to say.

She was pleased to hear his low, rumbling voice in reply.

"Hello, Melodie."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

As usual, Erik had hesitated over the use of her name but had finally grown weary of his own mental game. It was a strange stumbling block that he couldn't even begin to explain. At first, he hadn't even been aware of the fact that he'd never uttered her name until she'd pointed it out to him. But it had gone on long enough.

He was rewarded by a smile that lit her whole face from within.

"At last, my name is spoken! You may call me Mellie. I actually prefer it."

"All right…Mellie. I would advise in future that you don't venture out this way unaccompanied."

Her eyebrows knit together in puzzlement. "Why?"

"When Peter called out to you, you were mere steps away from falling into the river."

Rather than seeming horrified or nodding in agreement with the wisdom of his suggestion, she looked positively delighted with this news.

"Really? A river? Odd that I didn't hear the water. I usually notice things like that."

"I suppose," he conceded, "'river' might be overstating it. It's more of a brook, but there is a fairly steep drop in the bank of a good foot. You could have easily turned your ankle."

With an airy wave of her hand, she swung around to head back in that direction. "My cane would have informed me of any drop, but I appreciate your concern. A brook sounds positively charming."

Unsure whether to be amused or annoyed by her quick dismissal of his advice, he nevertheless fell into step beside her, adjusting his naturally long strides to match her pace. Curious as to whether she would find the edge of the embankment on her own, he said nothing to guide her. At first, she walked for some distance parallel to the water but after stopping for a few seconds, she veered course and turned to the right. Sure enough, with the cane sweeping in a steady motion just beyond her feet, she soon found the drop that he spoke of. "Shall we sit for a while?" she suggested.

He had been doing nothing but sitting for the past twenty minutes. Thinking of the passage that he'd been working on when Henry had made his uninvited visit, he glanced down to reply that they should return. However, he found himself gazing at nothing but air. Dropping his eyes even further, he saw her sitting on the grassy edge, legs stretched out and nose buried in the purple petals bunched in one hand. With a patience that he usually reserved for Peter, he crouched and then sat beside her, careful to maintain a respectable distance. "I can hear the water now, though it's not obvious," she said. "I suppose I wasn't listening for it when I first came out here. It's moving fairly slowly, I presume?"

"Yes, it's not very deep nor very fast."

"Since I can't swim, that's probably for the best. I shall strive not to drown myself on your property."

"That would be most appreciated," he said dryly.

"Where is Sascha? I don't hear her."

"She's fallen asleep. I believe Peter wore her out. She'll come to the door when she's ready to come in."

When she next spoke, her tone was wistful. "It must be beautiful here. I do wish I could see it."

He had never heard her complain or lament her lack of vision before. A question popped out of his mouth without thinking. "Were you born with your…condition?"

Fortunately, she appeared to take no offense to its personal nature, answering readily. "No, it's only happened in the last five years or so."

"But your vision is worsening?"

She hesitated, as if mulling over the answer. "It's difficult to judge on a daily basis but yes, it is getting worse. And the deterioration over the last six months or so has been the most rapid. I'm not sure why."

"Perhaps you are straining your eyes too much."

"I don't know. I don't think so. In any case, if I'm to lose my vision entirely, why should I deny myself the pleasure of reading a book or writing a letter while I'm still able?" Her tone was cross, her chin jutting out defiantly.

"Understandable. It's your choice to make."

"Exactly. At first, I stopped reading altogether, afraid that I was overly straining my eyes. Now, the only issue stopping me is the headaches but if I limit my time, it's manageable."

Silence settled between them and it was a surprisingly comfortable one. Briefly closing his eyelids against the light of day, he wondered what it would be like to view the world through Melodie's failing eyes. He supposed that no one could truly understand what it was like, including him.

The tiniest hint of a smile played on his lips when he realized he was hearing something for the very first time – the bubbling water of the brook.

Enjoying the quiet stillness for a little while longer, he turned to regard her when she spoke again. "Well, I suppose we should head back. Thank you for indulging me."

He helped her to her feet and they began walking towards home. "I'm sorry that Henry dropped by so unexpectedly," she said. "He's always been somewhat protective of me."

Remembering the earlier warning, Erik could only agree. "Indeed. He made that quite clear."

She sounded somewhat dismayed. "I hope it wasn't too unpleasant a conversation."

"It was fine," he assured her, vaguely surprised by his own reaction. Normally, he wouldn't be so…understanding, with the potentially volatile mix of the intrusion into his private dwelling and a semi-hostile interrogation. In this case, however, he harboured no resentment against Henry. "I understand his reasoning in coming here the way he did but thinking ahead to future visits, I would appreciate some notice. I trust you will relay this to him."

"Yes, of course."

"And what of your conversation with him?" he countered. "Was it unpleasant?"

When she failed to respond, he glanced down and noticed the curious sight of her pink-tinged cheeks. Perhaps she'd been out in the sun overly long.

"Not at all," she finally murmured, rather unconvincingly. "He was surprisingly understanding."

She revealed nothing more of their talk and he did not press for details. Soon reaching the house, they went inside and he found a shallow bowl for the freshly picked flowers. Passing it to her to fill with water from the pitcher, he heard an odd rattling sound. Only then did he realize he'd completely forgotten about the water he'd begun to boil for tea. Reaching for the brass kettle, he somehow managed to carelessly get his hand in the way of the billowing steam.

"_Merde!_" he hissed, jumping backwards.

Melodie was at his side immediately, her eyes wide with concern. "What is it?"

His hand beginning to throb with pain, he spoke through gritted teeth. "My hand. I burned it. Stupid."

"Let me see," she demanded, reaching up to gently but firmly grab hold of his wrist. Her attempt to inspect his hand was met with some resistance, as he clutched it against his chest. Clearly frustrated, she spoke quite sharply. "Erik, don't be a goose. Let me see your hand."

Unable to decide if he was more miffed at her tone of voice or being called a goose, he allowed her to lead him closer to the window. "The skin is quite red," she observed out loud, "but there are no blisters. It's not too bad." She pulled him back another two steps to the kitchen table, where she unceremoniously dunked the injured appendage into the bowl of cool water. "How does it feel?" she asked.

"Wet."

"Very funny. Is it quite painful?"

"I'll live."

In truth, he knew the burn was very minor, but he had never been fussed over before. He found it slightly humourous and – he admitted with great reluctance – rather enjoyable. However, he almost snatched his hand back when he became aware of her next attempt at doctoring. She'd lifted his wrist and was now blowing lightly over the angry reddened skin. "What are you doing?" he asked, completely baffled.

Stopping with her lips puckered in mid-breath, she began to laugh. "Sorry, it's what Henry used to do when I'd hurt myself as a child. I wasn't even thinking."

For a horrifying moment, he had thought she was about to kiss his palm. It was torturous enough for his hand to be cradled within hers; he couldn't imagine the feel of her soothing lips against his damaged skin.

As he reached for a nearby cloth to dry off, she shook her head, continuing to look amused. "I also injured my hand the other day. Nearly crushed it when I slammed a drawer shut. Considering we're both composers and musicians, we should learn to be more careful. We're quite the pair, are we not?"

Though her head tilted back, her gaze did not quite meet his eyes, falling in the vicinity of his chin.

In answer to her rhetorical question, he regarded her with an expression that very rarely graced his features – a genuine smile.

_Yes, _he agreed, _we're quite the pair indeed._

_

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_

A/N: As always, thanks to my wonder-beta **penkitten** and to all who have commented. I'm especially thrilled that some of you have mentioned liking my characterization and plotting – two elements that are really important to me.

To allegratree: Special thanks for your insightful feedback. I have gone back and edited the "Hi, bye, and okay". Please, if you (or anyone else) spot errors like these, continue to point them out. I've been finding it difficult to write the speech for Peter. I have him addressing his father as "dad". Is that acceptable or too modern? I thought "father" might be too formal (I would use "father" if socially, he was of a higher class) but I really have no idea.

No comment on the name thing with Erik (Melody vs. Melodie)

As for the name of the composer, it was actually Henry who came up with it and you're right, it wasn't a very bright choice of surname. I'll try to include an explanation on it later in the story but it's of no real consequence.


	12. Ch 11: Down Once More

Time was fluid and ever changing, sometimes seeming to come to a standstill, but more often racing by with a breathless blur. The symphony had become Melodie's sole focus and only vaguely was she aware of the time passing by. Days were longer and becoming warmer, the grass lush and green from the plentiful spring rains, the brook rising higher and moving just a touch faster. One day, she had been surprised to learn that they'd entered the month of June, which meant that a little over four weeks had gone by since arriving at Erik's home.

They had grown more comfortable with each other now, though neither of them were spectacular conversationalists. She knew no more of Erik's past than when she had first arrived and since he asked no questions of her, she had not volunteered any information of herself.

Their days had fallen into a routine of sorts. Having always been a morning person, she was awake and puttering about early, long before Erik stirred from his bed. She had taken to making breakfast for the two of them, eating her portion alone and setting aside the rest for him to eat later. If the weather permitted, she spent the rest of the morning outside, finding a suitable spot for her composing. Sometimes she sat at the base of a tree, nestled against the rough bark and sheltered by its leafy arms. If she wanted to be lulled by the sound of water, she chose to sit facing the brook, despite Erik's warning not to venture too closely. Once, not wanting to stray too far since the threat of rain seemed imminent, she'd foolishly planted herself just outside the back door. Erik had nearly fallen on top of her head, cursing as he always did in his native French.

She had not made that error again.

As Erik had confessed to her, he usually rose mid-morning and he preferred to sit at the piano while writing. In contrast to her relatively early retirement to her chambers, he often wrote late into the night, no doubt burning a great many candles down to misshapen stubs.

In the afternoons, they came together, meeting by the piano and sharing their individual works. Those daylight hours were further illuminated with flying sparks that ignited the air whenever they argued over major and minor points, equally passionate and stubborn when it came to their own creations and opinions. Their musical styles often clashed and though she was left to wonder whether a blended balance could ever be found, somehow it always worked out in the end. Following a silent and brooding dinner, by the time the dishes were put away and the kitchen cleared, they were ready to return to the piano for a session of compromise. Each instance this happened, something unique and exciting was added to the developing symphony. The process was arduous but thrilling, and Melodie couldn't be happier with the results thus far.

Only one blemish marred her happiness and it was a strange, unfamiliar feeling. She had never experienced anything like it before, thus she wasn't quite sure how to classify it. Instinct, however, told her that she was suffering from a malady called _infatuation. _It had sprung to life so innocently; the object of her attraction and admiration had solely been Erik's music. Now that object had grown to include the composer himself. Part of her rational self understood that she was idealizing his persona, much as a pupil might idolize a teacher, but that made the feelings no less real.

Perhaps even more troublesome than the newly acquired infatuation was the frequency in which she found herself cursing her weak, useless vision in his presence. Working so closely with him, yet unable to look upon him was absolutely maddening. She longed to see his hands caress the piano keys, his broad shoulders hunched in concentration, his face…his eyes. But ever careful to keep her longings hidden, she remained prim and proper within his company. Even Henry would find no fault with her respectable behaviour.

Thus far, Henry had only made one subsequent visit, giving notice well in advance via a letter. This time he stayed for dinner, complimenting the meal Erik had prepared – a simple beef stew. The two men in her life made polite, albeit halting conversation. Graciously excusing himself to allow her some privacy with Henry, Erik retreated to his chambers. She suspected that he was partially relieved to make his escape, though he claimed to be working on something. Leading Henry to the piano, she proudly showed him what had been accomplished in a month's time. Duly impressed, he also let her know that the construction of the theatre was on schedule. Opening night was set for the twenty-first of August.

The visit seemed to ease Henry's worries about the living arrangement. Melodie once again assured him that everything was going very well and she felt completely comfortable. When he left without inquiring about the status of her non-attraction to Erik, she breathed a sigh of relief.

Their only other visitor on a fairly regular basis was Peter. Depending on timing, if Erik was not in the focused mindset of serious composing, he continued to give reading lessons to the boy. On occasion, Melodie had walked in on a session in progress and each time, she'd been pleasantly surprised by Erik's demeanour. His tone was gentle, his words encouraging and he exuded such a wealth of patience; it was another glimpse into one of his many layers that she was delighted to discover.

Today marked another disagreement, this time over the tempo of the second movement. For reasons she could not understand, Erik was insistent on marking it as "largo", which she argued would be much too slow. "Andante" or even "adagio" would be more reasonable, in her opinion, but he could not be swayed. Although it fell under the category of a minor quibble and at this point, did not have to be resolved immediately, both of their nerves were still rankled.

When Peter's knock sounded at the door, the interruption had almost been welcome. As Erik invited him to sit for another lesson, Melodie also grabbed hold of a book and took it outside. Finding a shady spot, she settled down to read, mindful of stopping before any headache could develop. For a brief while, she was lost in a beautiful world of prose and poetry, rather envious of anyone who could write with such lyrical eloquence. All too soon, her eyes felt gritty and tired, the first signs of straining her vision. Putting the book aside with reluctance, she closed her eyes, tilting her head back and relaxing against the tree. Her mind began to drift aimlessly and with a sudden start, she realized she was no longer alone.

She was also quite horizontal, the smell of grass and earth in her nose.

"Are you asleep?"

Startled and disoriented, she looked up in the direction of Peter's insistent voice. "When did you get here?" she asked.

"I was calling you, but you didn't answer. Erik sent me to find you."

Feeling slightly groggy, she deduced that she must have drifted off, though she wasn't sure for how long. A little unsteadily, she pulled herself to her feet. Before she could even ask, Peter was handing over her book and cane. The gesture was sweet and she thanked him.

Upon entering the kitchen, she heard the sounds of food preparation – specifically the chopping of a knife.

Erik's voice rumbled from nearby. "Peter, take this basket and go down to the cellar. In the corner, you'll find some plums. Four should suffice and you may take one for yourself."

"But I don't like the cellar!" came the whine of protest. "It's dark and scary." A small hand tugged at Melodie's sleeve. "Will you come with me?"

"The cellar?" she echoed.

She heard her own voice, as if from a great distance. Perhaps because she'd just awoken from an unintended slumber, she felt caught in some sort of dream, trapped within a black hole of an imagined cellar. The walls seemed to be caving in on her, suffocating her until she had no remaining breath in her body.

Someone called her name but she was powerless to answer.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Erik, something's wrong with Mellie."

Erik glanced up from the salad he'd been preparing to find Melodie strangely frozen in place and Peter regarding her with puzzlement.

Frowning, he put aside the knife and approached her, calling her name softly. "Mellie?"

She either ignored him or did not hear him, continuing to stare off into space. It was the expression in her eyes that caused him the most concern; they were wide and haunted. Only once before had he seen her eyes clouded by that same, troubling emotion – the incident in the Empire theatre when she'd trembled in his arms in a full-blown panic.

"Melodie," he said, more sharply.

When she still failed to respond, he took hold of her shoulders and gave them a brief shake. The book she had been clutching fell with a dull thunk to the floor. At his touch, her eyes seemed to clear and she blinked.

"What…what's wrong?" she asked. "I get the distinct feeling everyone is staring at me."

Peter spoke first, sounding rather excited. "You were in a trance. Or maybe you were sleepwalking! My friend's father does that. Maybe you didn't really wake up when I found you. You just woke up now when Erik shook you. Yeah, I'll bet that's it!"

Fixing the child with a stern gaze, Erik said gruffly, "Peter, that's enough. Never mind the plums. I think it best you went home."

A look of stark disappointment flickered across the boy's features and Erik didn't know if the cause was the loss of the promised fruit or being sent away. In a kinder tone, he added, "Come back tomorrow, if you can. I'll have a plum waiting for you."

Seeming mollified, Peter retrieved the fallen book and set it on the kitchen table before scampering off.

"You may release me," she advised, somewhat stiffly. "I'm perfectly fine. I was simply distracted."

Studying her face, he noted the smattering of freckles in vivid contrast against the pale white skin, as if she'd been drained of her life's blood. "Distracted? You looked as if you were about to faint." Worry tinged his voice with a harshness he hadn't intended, making the statement sound like an accusation.

Judging by the healthier, rosy hue that slowly began to suffuse her cheeks, she indeed took offense to his remark. "I've never fainted in my life," she scoffed. "You're overreacting. And I believe I asked you to release me."

Aware that her shoulders were still captured in his firm grip, he led her over to a chair. "Not until you sit down."

If she had chosen to, she could have jerked out of his grasp, but she was surprisingly docile, allowing him to guide her. Once she was seated, he pulled out a chair for himself and sat down adjacent to her. His analytical mind was starting to form theories on the reasons behind her odd behaviour, but they were only theories. He wanted to learn the truth. "Would you like some water?" he asked.

"No thank you. I told you I'm – "

"Yes," he interrupted, "it's obvious that you're fine now but two minutes ago, you looked ready to collapse. I want to know why."

"Why does it matter? I promise, it won't happen again."

"Why? I don't ever want to see that look in your eyes again, that's why. And you're right, it won't happen again because I won't allow it. But you have to trust me enough to be honest with me. Haven't you always insisted on honesty between us?"

"I…yes, I suppose I have," she said, though she sounded reluctant to admit it. Clearing her throat, she sat back in the chair, enfolding her hands tightly in her lap. "It's childish, really, but I can't seem to control my reaction. I have a fear of small, enclosed spaces, particularly when they are coupled with darkness. A prime example would be the room that we were forced to hide in at the Empire."

The connection between that incident and what had just occurred seemed obvious now, as he softly said, "Or a cellar."

Her eyes fluttered closed for a moment, as if blocking out the sight of something hideous. "Yes, a cellar. That is the root of this ridiculous fear of mine, and it only stems from a singular episode from my childhood. I suppose you want to hear about that too."

"I do, but the choice is yours to make."

"I've come this far. I may as well relay the whole story. I was very young, about six or seven. There was a wine cellar in the Wentworth's home. David, the son of the family, is two years older than me and we used to play together. Being a boy, he was rather mischievous and thought it would be amusing to lock me in the cellar. I don't remember how he lured me down there. It must have been something clever because I never would have ventured in on my own. When I was shut in, it was completely black. I stumbled around for a while, crying out for help, but no one came. All I could do was sit and wait. I felt…_things_…spiders, perhaps, sometimes crawling across my arms." She shuddered in remembrance, though her tone remained even. "Something even bit me. I think it was a mouse, because I remember hearing the sound of scurrying little feet. In any case, I was there for many hours, almost an entire day. Henry would have noticed my absence but he'd been out of town for the day. Only upon his return did anyone realize I was missing. That's when David confessed, claiming that he hadn't meant for the prank to extend for so long and he'd simply forgotten about me."

Erik arched an eyebrow. "That's difficult to believe."

Shrugging one shoulder, she said, "I don't know. Everyone seemed to believe it, including Henry."

"Perhaps because it would be too awful to consider that David knew exactly what he was doing and enjoyed being cruel."

"Perhaps," she conceded. "So there you have it. Even though it happened so long ago and I should have outgrown this childish fear, it still exists."

Erik sat silently fuming over something that had occurred twenty odd years ago. Such a vivid picture had been painted by Melodie's words. He could perfectly imagine a terrified little girl, screaming for help in the nightmarish darkness, only to find herself abandoned and alone. _To think that she had been locked in that hell for a whole day?_ It was inconceivable.

_But in actual fact, he knew exactly what it was like to be a child, imprisoned in a hellhole. _

Irritated with himself for that stray thought, he gave his head a quick shake. _David Wentworth, yet again. _Even as a child, he was worthy of contempt.

Another series of unbidden images filtered into Erik's mind, this time in recollection of what he'd witnessed on the terrace of the Grayson's estate: David's leering gaze. Melodie's discomfort and distaste for the man. The bastard's hand poised to strike her face.

A sudden revelation occurred to him, though he sternly told himself to keep his temper in check, at least until he'd witnessed her reaction. "Why did you leave the Wentworths?" he asked, his voice deceptively quiet. Though something flickered in her eyes, she did not reply, so he pressed on. "You grew up there. It was your home. You had Henry there, a man who clearly adores you like a father. Something happened to make you leave and my gut tells me that David Wentworth was involved."

"Why would you think that?"

"The night of _Celebration's _debut. I was there, remember? I saw your reaction to him and the way…he looked at you."

Appearing stricken, her lips parted and closed twice, but no sound emerged. He noticed her hands curled in her lap, clenched so fiercely the nails were surely digging into her palms. "Stop that," he chided. "You'll draw blood." Gently plucking at her fingers until they unfurled like an opening flower, he then withdrew his hand. "Did he hurt you? Tell me."

When she finally began to speak, her voice was low and monotone, as if she deliberately chose to devoid herself of all emotion. "Your perceptiveness continually amazes me, Erik. Yes, David caught me alone one day. I knew something was wrong so I tried to run away but he tripped me and I fell. Then he was on top of me and…his mouth was on mine. I refuse to call it a kiss. I managed to free one of my hands and stabbed him. Then I escaped."

"Stabbed him? With a knife?"

"No, unfortunately, a knife wasn't available," she said, a sardonic edge now slipping into her voice. "I used my trusty pen. He may still carry a scar on his hand."

Erik held himself stiffly in the chair, retreating to his inner thoughts once more. The details she had provided about David's attack on her had been sketchy but his fertile mind was more than capable of filling in the gaps. He was flooded with disturbing images yet again and though he was well aware his imaginings could be worse than the reality, he doubted he was far off.

Anger swept through him with breakneck speed, his temples throbbing from the rush of blood that boiled in his veins. Equal portions of his fury were directed at David and himself.

_I should have killed the bastard while I had the chance._

He leapt to his feet so quickly, the chair nearly overturned beneath him before he caught it with one hand. Recognizing that he was a hair width away from exploding, he was desperate to conceal that fact from the woman who now glanced upwards with a quizzical look. His gaze flitted frantically around the room and landed on a nearby glass. Thinking a gulp of water might help, he swiped it from the table. As soon as his fingers closed around the smooth surface, he realized how inane that thought was. No amount of water would cool the rage that was so close to spiralling out of control.

The glass flew from his fingertips, hurled towards a back corner of the kitchen. Striking the stone wall, it shattered with a ringing burst of sound, glittering fragments sprinkling to the floor. It was a small act of destruction that didn't quite fulfil his craving for violence, but the release gave him some measure of satisfaction.

"Erik?"

She was on her feet now, her expression troubled.

His voice was raspy, as if he'd just recovered from some monumental struggle. "I dropped a glass."

Although she gave no indication of whether she believed that dubious statement, she didn't question it. "You're upset," she said. "With me?"

_How could she even think that? _

"No, ma chère, not with you."

"With David, then. Perhaps I shouldn't have told you. He's not worth getting upset over. I want you to know that I'm not afraid of him. I despise him, but I no longer fear him."

There was much to say but Erik could not bring himself to express any of it. He felt curiously drained, as if all of his energy had disintegrated along with the shards of glass littering the floor. But he had to say or do _something._

An idea finally came to him and he stepped forward, cupping Melodie's elbow. "Come with me and wait by the hearth. I have something to show you."

"But the glass…" she started to say.

"I'll clean it up later. You're not to touch it. I don't want you to cut yourself."

He led her to the couch in the sitting room and then proceeded upstairs, taking the steps two at a time, before he could change his mind.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Waiting on the cushioned seat, Melodie couldn't help feeling bewildered. After everything she had revealed, she had no idea what Erik was thinking. Her only clue was a broken glass and the fact that it had been thrown, not dropped. When it smashed, the startling sound had been too far away to have simply fallen at Erik's feet. No, he had deliberately flung it in anger.

As if sensing her confusion, a sympathetic whine was issued from Sascha's throat. Not aware that the dog had been in the room, Melodie smiled and held out her hand. Soft fur soon met her fingers and she stroked the dog's silky head. She'd never had a pet but had always been fond of animals. Sascha, in particular, was easy to love – gentle, good natured, and a fine companion.

Melodie didn't have much time to mull over her thoughts, as Erik returned quite quickly, setting something down beside her.

"Down, Sascha," he said, sounding slightly out of breath. "Mellie, this is for you. It's rather large, so it may take you a while to peruse it fully."

Not knowing what to expect, she leaned in for a closer look and her eyes widened with amazement. "I'm sorry it's not framed," he went on. "I meant to start making one and just haven't had the time yet. But considering all the unpleasantness, I thought you might appreciate this now."

Barely comprehending what he was prattling on about, she said, "You did this? For me?"

"Yes," he replied.

It was a watercolour painting of a place that she resided in but could only picture in her imagination – until now. In the foreground stood Erik's home and beyond it lay the green fields and running brook. The opposite side of the water held rolling hills and clumps of trees. Her eyes roamed eagerly, trying to take in everything at once. The detail was exquisite, from the stones of the house to the purple wildflowers scattered amongst the grass.

Drawing back at last, she was nearly moved to tears, not only by the sheer beauty of the gift, but the thoughtfulness behind it. Perhaps misinterpreting her silence, he sounded concerned as he asked, "Do you not like it?"

She attempted to swallow the lump in her throat before she could speak. "Forgive me, I'm rather overwhelmed. It's beautiful, Erik, more so than I can express in words. Thank you."

Her response seemed to satisfy him. "Good," he stated shortly.

Hearing some rustling, she presumed that he set aside the painting. He sank down beside her on the couch, not so close that they touched, yet she could feel the warmth radiating from him. A deep intake of breath preceded his speech. "You must be wondering how I can take in all that you have told me and not respond to it. It's often difficult for me to express my feelings, but that does not mean they don't exist. There is one thing, however, that I want to make very clear. Right now, this is your home and you are completely safe. Consider David Wentworth to be nothing more than an unpleasant memory. You're right, he's not worth getting upset over and I won't mention him again. Nothing will harm you while you're here with me. Is that understood?"

Although his means of comforting her oddly resembled more of an order, she found herself nodding, curbing the desire to see his face. Instead, she concentrated on the musicality of his voice.

And with a reluctant twinge, she realized her infatuation had grown just a little deeper.

* * *

A/N: To allegratree: I didn't mind your rant at all. Since I love musicals, I have seen all of those films you mentioned, even Barnum - though it was a long time ago and I seem to have no recollection of it...just a very young Michael Crawford. I shall strive to keep your comments in mind as I write.

Thanks to my beta, penkitten, and to all who have reviewed. It's especially nice to hear from some new readers. I hope you continue to enjoy this tale of mine.


	13. Ch 12: What Raging Fire

"I haven't seen you in a while."

Erik had been in the middle of contemplating whether he should also pick up some eggs when the woman's voice distracted him. "Pardon?" he had to ask.

"I said I haven't seen you in a while," she repeated, continuing to wrap the round of cheese in paper. "How is your lovely niece?"

"She's fine," he replied shortly.

Deciding he had no need of eggs yet, he paid for his purchase and left, her cheerful goodbye calling out to him from behind. The cheese had been the last item on his list and he secured it in the saddlebag of his horse. It was odd that the woman had never ventured to make conversation before, merely stealing the occasional furtive glance in his direction from the corner of her eye. However, ever since his 'niece' had started residing with him, she had taken over shopping duties and apparently charmed more than half of the shopkeepers in town. He had never experienced so many people attempting to speak with him before. It was disconcerting and frankly, he wasn't sure if he liked it. Engaging in small talk and pointless conversational pleasantries were definitely skills he sorely lacked, but he supposed those were the expectations in society.

_Isn't that what you want? To become a part of society?_

With a brief snort of derision, he smoothly hoisted himself onto the saddle and they were off in a cloud of dust. After a short sprint, he slowed the animal down, though the strong pull on the reins and tossing head indicated the reduction of speed wasn't appreciated. As of late, he'd been neglectful in riding the spirited stallion. On the way into town, he had allowed the horse to race at top speed for almost the entire distance. To do so again now wouldn't be healthy, like a child indulging in too much candy.

Erik patted the horse's neck. "Sorry, but you've had your fun. I promise, we'll go riding more often."

Lulled by the rhythmic motion, his thoughts wandered and he found himself reflecting on the recent past. Good progress was being made on the symphony, the last month seeming to pass by in a mere blink of an eye. Not only was he pleased with the progression of the work, but also with Melodie's technical abilities. With the combination of her intelligence and intuition, she was a quick learner. At this point, she was more than capable of writing the symphony on her own, if she so chose. But their partnership had been working well and she showed no indication of wanting to end it.

The last three days had been especially productive, the notes streaming onto the page with a magical frenzy. On rare occasions, he had previously experienced such heightened states while writing – usually in the wee hours of the morning – but never with a partner. Instead of spending their mornings apart, as they usually did, they had hardly left each other's side. In fact, they had barely taken the time to eat or sleep; music had been their sustenance.

This afternoon, the whirlwind of heady activity had finally begun to wind down, perhaps because they had both exhausted themselves. Since Melodie had not gone into town recently, provisions were slim. He had decided it would be best to go on horseback before the shops closed for the evening.

Their meal tonight would be simple – bread, cheese, and perhaps some wine. He had even managed to purchase something for dessert – shortbread dipped in chocolate.

Though he didn't know if she possessed a sweet tooth, he hoped she would be pleased with the treat.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Giving way to a huge yawn, Melodie covered her mouth with one hand out of habit, though no one was there to witness it. Although the rigors of the last few days had caught up to her, leaving her bone-tired, she felt simultaneously rejuvenated. The intense session of writing that she had shared with Erik had been most extraordinary. In all her years of composing, she had never experienced anything like it.

_Perhaps a nap before he returns would be wise._ Already feeling the heaviness in her eyelids, she imagined the couch would be soft and inviting. Before moving towards it, however, she realized that she had missed her almost daily ritual for these past three days.

Walking over to her painting, she clasped her hands behind her back and leaned forward, taking in the view. As Erik had promised, he built a simple wooden frame for it and mounted it on the wall at her eye level. Each time she looked at it, there seemed to be some new detail that had previously escaped her notice. She never grew weary of it.

The diversity of his talents was simply mind boggling – composing music and lyrics, painting, woodworking, fluent in at least two languages, playing the piano and violin, even cooking. Was there nothing he could not do?

A sudden banging noise startled her, making her jump back. It was coming from the kitchen, presumably the door. After a pause, the pounding resumed, followed by the creaking of the door as it opened.

"Erik? Mellie?"

At the sound of Peter's voice, she hurried forward, able to weave her way around the house now without her cane.

"Peter?" she called out. "What is it?"

"Is Erik here?"

"No, he's gone into town. What's wrong? You sound upset."

Her hand was grabbed and she found herself being pulled along. "You have to come with me," he said, his voice breathless and filled with urgency. "He's hurting her. He won't listen to me."

She allowed him to lead her as far as the door but then stopped in her tracks, literally digging her heels in. "Peter, wait." Though his hand continued to tug on hers, she wouldn't budge any further. Speaking firmly but calmly, she bent down to his level until she could see his face. "Tell me what's happening. I can't help you if I don't understand what is going on."

"It's my father. He found out that Sascha is here and he wants her back. She tried to bite him and then he kicked her. I told him to stop but he won't listen, and he's mad that I come here so much." With tears welling in his eyes, he gave her a beseeching look. "Please, Mellie, maybe he'll listen to you."

Recalling that Peter had once told her that Sascha used to belong to his father, she tried to piece together some of the facts. She knew that the animal had been badly beaten when Erik had found her. It wouldn't be a far stretch to presume that Mr. Bain had caused those injuries. And although it was highly doubtful such a man would listen to anything she had to say, she couldn't very well stand idly by and do nothing.

"All right," she relented. "Let's go."

The boy took off like a shot and she ran headlong in his tracks, both fearful and strangely exhilarated to be out in the fields without her cane. With feet pounding on the soft earth and her heart thumping erratically, she seemed to lose all sense of time and direction. "Do you see them? How much farther?" she asked.

"I see my dad," Peter informed her. "We're almost there."

At one point, she stumbled and almost fell but managed to keep upright. A series of sharp, ferocious sounding barks pierced the air, making the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. She had never heard sweet, gentle Sascha issue such threatening sounds before. The barking abruptly changed to a keening whine, lasting for several prolonged seconds. Savage growling and more barking quickly followed. Intermingled with the noise coming from Sascha was the human sound of male shouting and cursing.

"Dad, stop it!"

"I told you to go home. Who the hell is this?"

Letting go of the child's hand, she stepped forward, trying to orient herself with his voice. "My name is Melodie. I'm…Erik's niece and this is his dog."

"The hell it is! She was my dog before this Erik stole her and now he's been stealing my boy's time too. I need him to help me on the farm, not waste his time here with his head in the clouds. This was the best damn sheep herder I ever had and she's coming back with me."

"If she was so valuable, why would you have beaten her to within an inch of her life?" she countered. "If it wasn't for Erik, she wouldn't even be alive."

"I…I didn't mean to. It was an accident." For the first time, he sounded unsure of himself.

"You were drunk," piped up a childish voice.

"Shut up, Peter."

"So you admit to beating her," Melodie stated. "You may as well admit that Erik didn't steal her. She showed up at his door, close to death, and he nursed her back to health. You have no right now to claim this dog as your own."

When her speech was met with silence, she was hopeful that he might be capable of reason after all. Kneeling down, she held out one hand, crooning softly. "Sascha, come here."

All sounds from the animal had ceased and she had no idea if she was even facing the right direction. However, a cold, wet nose soon grazed her fingertips. "That's it. You're all right now. We're going home."

Apparently, Mr. Bain didn't appreciate that declaration, as he snapped, "Stop your meddling, girl!"

The shove to her shoulder surprised her, reeling her backwards until she fell on her behind. She wasn't hurt, but the immediate reaction from Sascha made her flinch with its frightening intensity. The dog went wild in a frenzied, ear-splitting din of snarling and barking that made her head ache. Added to the commotion were the screams of both father and son. As a human howl of agony rang out, she assumed Sascha's teeth had found their mark.

"Sascha, stop it!" she cried. Hearing the low, continuous growling nearby, she crawled a short distance and found the soft fur within reach.

"Goddamn dog bit me!"

More barking ensued and she somehow knew Sascha was about to lunge again. Trying to grab onto the animal, a sudden pain exploded in her chest.

Melodie wasn't sure what was happening, except for the fact that she couldn't breathe. As the pain radiated outwards, stealing her breath away, she slumped to the ground.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Juggling several packages in his arms, Erik let himself in the front door. All was quiet and still, and he guessed that Melodie might be indulging in a nap. He moved straight to the kitchen, depositing everything onto the table, and then proceeded back through the house to go upstairs. Before heading to his chambers, he passed by Melodie's room and halted at the sight of her bed; it was empty.

_Perhaps she went for a walk?_

Niggling jabs of warning started prodding at his brain, filling him with unease. Something was amiss but he couldn't quite connect the pieces of the puzzle yet. He went back downstairs, walking through the sitting room. The vague sense of uneasiness deepened when he spied her cane by the piano. Not once could he remember her ever venturing outdoors without it.

Striding once more to the kitchen, his footsteps falling more quickly now, he took in the sight of the open door. He had thought nothing of it earlier; the afternoons were often so stuffy, the door was left open in the hopes of enticing a breeze to flow in. Trying to push aside his growing concern, he stepped outside and looked around. Surely, she wouldn't have wandered too great a distance.

"Mellie!" he called out.

He went a bit farther, eyes darting about, expecting to see her sitting somewhere with a book in hand. Nothing but waves of green grass and lone trees met his gaze. Expanding his visual boundary, he looked towards the water, his sightline following along the bank.

_There! _

He could see something off in the distance – one figure, perhaps two – but it was too far away. She would not have ventured that far, especially without her cane. Though he glanced away, his eyes were drawn back again and he squinted against the late afternoon sun.

A very faint but familiar sound carried on the wind, instantly putting him on alert – Sascha's bark.

Without further hesitation, he broke into a run.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Melodie lay there, gasping, aware of the oddest things. The grass tickled her nose, almost making her laugh, except for the fact that she felt like crying. Sascha continued her incessant, crazed barking and Peter added his voice to the din, yelling at the top of his lungs.

Though she seemed unable to comprehend what he was saying, she recognized that he was repeating the same phrase over and over again. Closing her eyes, she wanted nothing more than to dig a hole into the earth, bury her head in it, and block out this horrendous noise.

"Mellie! Mellie!"

It was Peter and she groaned involuntarily, squeezing her eyes shut even tighter. _Please, just leave me alone._

But he was persistent, his voice laced with panic and terror. "Mellie, I think I killed him! He's not moving."

That got her attention. "What?" she croaked.

"I…I pushed him and Sascha jumped on him. He fell…in the water…hit his head on a…a rock. I think he's dead! I killed him."

As his shaky voice dissolved into wrenching sobs, she tried to think rationally. _Maybe the man was merely unconscious. However, considering he fell into the brook…_

"Peter, is he face down in the water?"

The boy continued to weep and though she felt like joining him, she forced some authority into her voice. "Peter! This is important. Look at your father and tell me if he is face down in the water."

The crying ceased, coming to a choking halt, and the answer was affirmative. "Yes. What does that mean?"

_If he's not dead already, he soon will be._

She tried to push herself up but her body was refusing to cooperate. Lifting an arm, she motioned towards Peter. "You have to help me. I can't stand on my own."

With his support, she managed to stand upright. Taking shallow breaths and ignoring the pain, she said, "Now take me to your father."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Erik raced through the field, aware that he should take more heed in his footing over the uneven ground, but he couldn't tear his eyes away from the tableau in the distance. He could now discern that the large figure was a man and next to him was a smaller silhouette – a boy – possibly Peter. Although he still couldn't see Sascha, he could hear her fierce barking. Then, seemingly out of nowhere, the dog and the boy leapt at the man, almost simultaneously. He fell out of sight, presumably into the water.

There appeared to be no sign of Melodie, until he spotted a lump of grey, crumpled on the ground. _Wasn't she wearing a grey dress today?_

Another flash of instinct told him he had found her at last. As a slick and oily sense of fear coated the insides of his gut, he urged his legs to pump faster and found himself doing something he hadn't done in thirty-plus years; he prayed.

_Dear God, let her be all right._

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Stumbling awkwardly into the brook, Melodie gasped at the unexpected chilliness. It seemed as though her head and toes had been dipped into opposite extremes of temperature; her face felt fiery from exertion, beads of sweat snaking down her temples, while her legs were plunged into cold water, just beyond her knees.

Kneeling down and bending forward, the front of her dress was soon soaked as well. Her hands reached out, finding the man's prone form and indeed, his face was submerged under water. Pushing and shoving, she tried to roll him over to no avail.

"Peter, help me!"

"I'm trying," the boy replied.

Even if she hadn't been injured, she doubted their combined strength would be enough to budge him an inch. She had never felt so wet and miserable in all her life, cursing her ineffectual weakness. Though it wasn't in her nature to admit defeat, she was at a loss. The devastated child had started to cry again, more quietly this time. Her heart went out to him, wanting to assure him he was not at fault.

"What the devil is going on here?" boomed a most unexpected and blessed voice.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Relieved to see that Melodie seemed to be all right after all, Erik stared down at them. Although he had been worried to see her collapsed on the ground, he'd then seen her stagger into the water. She must be relatively unhurt, though she looked a fine mess. Her light grey dress was sopping, darkened to a shade that bordered on black. Wet clumps of hair half obscured her face, the rest tangling down her back.

His inquiry was answered by an unintelligible babble as both Peter and Melodie burst out talking at once. Before he could make his annoyance known, she laid a hand on the child's forearm.

"Darling, hush for a moment. Erik, you must get Mr. Bain out of the water. He's hit his head and is unconscious. I've tried, but I can't move him."

"Of course you can't," Erik snapped. "He's more than twice your size. Peter, move aside."

As they scrambled out of the way, he bent down and threw the man's arm across his shoulder, hoisting him up. Grunting with the effort, he dragged the limp body up onto the bank and laid him on his back. The round, pudgy face was pasty white, mouth slack, and water dripping everywhere, but the most important observation – the lack of rise and fall in the chest. "He's not breathing."

Even as he spoke those fatal words, a memory stirred and Erik flopped the man over onto his generously endowed stomach. Starting at the small of the back, he ran both hands up along either side of the spine, pressing down hard. He repeated the motion, muttering, "Breathe, damnit."

"What are you doing?" Peter asked.

"He's taken water into his lungs. I've seen someone revived by this method once. But he has to…"

Erik cut himself off in mid-speech as the formerly still body convulsed beneath his hands. Choking and sputtering, Bain spit up a gush of water, taking in gulps of air with heaving breaths. He groaned, a sorry sound, but it indicated he was alive.

Escaping from Melodie's grasp, Peter jumped to his father's side. "Dad, you're alive! I'm sorry, I didn't mean to do it."

Moaning once more, Bain pulled himself into a sitting position, touching the side of his head with tentative fingers and wincing. "You damn near killed me, boy," he rasped.

"Someone had better tell me what's been happening here," Erik advised, not bothering to hide his displeasure or impatience.

When Bain looked at him, he recoiled slightly at the sight of Erik's half-masked face. Obviously, his son had failed to mention that little detail. Gesturing for Peter to help him, he shakily got to his feet and Erik followed suit. They locked gazes until Bain finally spoke.

"You're Erik?"

"That's right."

"I came to get my dog. I'm her rightful owner."

Erik glanced at Sascha, who lay by Melodie's side. The dog was motionless but her black eyes never wavered from Bain. He could also detect a very faint growling coming from deep in her throat. "Let us strike a bargain," Erik said, his tone reasonable. "If the dog goes to you willingly, you may take her."

Casting a wary eye at the animal, Bain stiffened at the sound of more audible growling. "I don't have to bargain with you," he said. "I'm within my rights." Though he attempted to put on a show of bravado, nervousness oozed from his every pore.

Erik tried to contain his smirk. "Let me ask you this. What good is owning an animal that is more likely to tear off your head than obey any directive from you? Besides, you must have noticed the disabling limp. She isn't fit for herding sheep any longer. You made sure of that."

A flush of red crept up the man's neck, quickly staining his entire face. Rather surprisingly, he didn't deny the rather unsubtle accusation. "Fine! You can have the damn dog but you stay away from my boy from now on."

"Dad…" the child protested in a small voice.

"Shut up, Peter."

Erik jabbed his index finger squarely into the man's chest, driving him a step backwards. "You should learn to be more respectful towards your son. He is your child, not your property. What is the harm in having him learn to read and write? He's a smart lad. He has a future ahead of him."

Visibly furious, Bain slapped away his hand. "Don't tell me how to raise my son! _My _son, not yours. His life is here on the farm and that is where he'll stay."

Battling against both frustration and anger, Erik curbed his desire to lash out with his fist. Unfortunately, he had no say in this matter. Peter seemed on the verge of tears but he had no words of comfort to provide either.

Sascha's sudden whine distracted him and he turned around in time to see Melodie keel over. He was at her side in an instant, arms around her shoulders to support her and berating himself for having almost forgotten her. "What's wrong?" he asked.

"I can't…can't breathe…my chest…it hurts…"

She was gasping, the words torn from her throat with great effort and a desperate wheezing. Frowning, he regarded the front of her dress but could see no bleeding or obvious sign of injury. Although he didn't know what had transpired, he didn't have to look far to find the logical culprit. Only one man here was capable of dishing out abuse to innocent children and animals; now women could be added to the list.

Her soft, doe eyes were murky, her face wrenched with pain. "Erik?" she whispered, letting his name dangle on the air.

"You're all right," he murmured, gently laying her back down. "I'll take you home soon. You're fine, Mellie, don't worry."

Rising to his feet, he fixed Bain with a hardened stare that had been known to reduce men to blubbering pools of jelly. "What did you do to her?" he demanded.

The man's mouth opened and closed like a gaping fish, as he stuttered inanely. "I…I didn't do…do anything."

Erik advanced on him in two quick strides, using his height advantage to loom over the shorter man. Baring his teeth, he was vaguely aware that he must resemble a snarling animal but he was beyond caring. Now was not the time to put on the gentlemanly act. "If you value your life, you will tell me now what put Melodie into this state, or I swear that I will tear you limb from limb."

Perhaps his threat had been too effective, as Bain goggled at him with bulging eyes and quivering lips, seemingly rendered incapable of speech. "Speak!" Erik barked.

Flinching, the cork popped from Bain's mouth, as a torrent of words flowed out. "It was an accident, I swear! The dog bit me, went crazy, I don't know why – "

"Because you pushed Mellie," Peter cut in rather bravely, scowling at his father.

With this piece of information, Erik felt a tick start to pulse beneath his right eye. "You pushed her." His tone was cold and flat, deceptively void of any emotion.

"It was b-barely a push. I didn't hurt her. But then, like I said, the dog came at me and I was only trying to defend myself. I…" Bain trailed off, swallowing hard, until he found some semblance of courage to continue. "I meant to kick the dog, only because I knew she was going to jump at me again and this time, she was eyeing my throat." Pointing with a shaky finger, he blurted out, "She got in the way! I didn't mean to kick her. I swear I didn't. Peter, tell him!"

The boy remained silent, though Erik doubted he would have heard him anyway. An ominous mixture of boiling blood and icy fury was roaring through him, obliterating everything from his senses – everything but one cowering, snivelling excuse of a man. Even as some part of him realized he was stepping onto that slippery slope that would descend him straight into hell, he willingly made that first step. And past experience told him that once the slide began, there was no turning back.

When Bain seemed to comprehend he was in the direct path of danger, his instinct to flee kicked in and he turned to run. Erik's hand shot out and grabbed hold of the man's shoulder, yanking him back around. At that first contact with the coward's flesh, warm beneath the dampness of his shirt, Erik knew the descent into blind raging fire had begun.

* * *

A/N: Please forgive me for the cliffhanger! It's not something I normally do, but the chapter was already getting long and this seemed a good place to end it.

Thanks to my beta, penkitten. A big thank you to everyone for their comments and it's always nice to see some new readers. To anyone who is reading and lurking out there, thanks to you as well (but it would be lovely of you to leave your comments too).

My story has been nominated in a POTO Reader's Choice Fanfiction Awards. Go to freewebs$com/phanphicawards/romance2$htm (replace the "$" with "." - sorry for the pain but I guess true links can't be posted here) and take a look. If you really like Deception, a vote would be nice, but it will also give you links to other worthy fics that you may have missed.


	14. Ch 13: Shall Flood The Soul

Bain's clumsy missteps made it all the more easy for Erik, as the terrified man somehow managed to trip over his own feet. Down he went in an ungraceful tangle of limbs and Erik was right on top of him, wrapping his long, elegant fingers around the man's throat.

As Erik squeezed without remorse, the strained, crimson face of the man beneath him seemed to shift and morph into a dozen other visages including his father, the gypsy who manned his cage, country folk who tormented him from outside the bars, Joseph Buquet, and even David Wentworth. Their mouths were black, cavernous holes that split across their faces in silent screams, their eyes red and streaming with a mixture of tears and blood, begging for a mercy that did not exist.

The nightmarish images were relentless, spinning from one to another with such power and fury that Erik felt ill. Beads of sweat popped on his forehead as he gnashed his teeth, his jaw aching with a pounding throb. At last, the madly whirling visions began to recede, leaving only the face of Bain in its wake – the man who dared to inflict pain on Sascha, Peter, and now Melodie. The roaring between his ears also started to fade just a little, but the strength of his murderous hands did not; the stranglehold remained, rapidly crushing the life from the body trapped beneath him.

"Erik! Erik, stop it. Mellie, make him stop!"

He was dimly aware of the pleading, childish cry but he took no heed. Peter was better off without his father.

_I'm better off without my father. He sold me to the gypsies. How could he do that? My own father!_

Startled and confused by the thought, his grip on the throat relaxed slightly. Whose life – whose father – was he trying to extinguish here? He truly must be going insane, for he did not know the answer.

_A pity it isn't David Wentworth's neck between my fingers. Or is it Buquet's life that I'm taking yet again? Did he not die the first time?_

Another wave of cold sweat shuddered through him as he fought to comprehend his own disjointed thoughts. His hands trembled and he stared at them, transfixed, with a sense of detachment. They seemed to be separate entities, as if he had no control over their impulse to kill.

"Erik, please stop. Listen to me, Erik. You must stop this."

The soft, feminine utterance cut through the fog of his delirium and somehow, he recognized that it was a voice of reason and sanity. Focusing on the calm, rational tone, the other whisperings in his head ceased their torment.

Letting Bain go at last, Erik fell back and sat on the grass, his mind beginning to reel at what he'd almost done. The pitiful man coughed and wheezed, the deep redness of his face gradually returning to a semblance of normality. With his son's help, he pulled himself into a sitting position, regarding Erik with a strangely blank expression, as if he suffered from shock. When he spoke, his voice was painfully hoarse. "You're insane."

Erik threw his head back, laughing with such wretchedness it chilled his own heart. "You have no idea. Ironic, isn't it, that I first saved your life. You would be dead in the water were it not for me. But remember this – if you ever come near Sascha or Melodie again, or if I ever see another bruise on your son, I will kill you. And if you think this is an idle threat, you would be mistaken. You have no idea what I'm capable of. Consider yourself very lucky today."

As Erik rose to his feet, he avoided Peter's gaze, afraid of what he would find in the boy's eyes. Although Bain was a pathetic excuse for a father, he was the only parent the child had. He should not have had to witness the attempted murder of his own father.

Instead, his eyes sought out Melodie, who lay just a few feet away. Her face was terribly white and she struggled to take in each breath. The sight of her caused a well of reactions to bubble up and chief among them was the desire to protect her; shield her from all harm. Had he not promised her she would be safe here, in his home and in his presence? He had failed her.

"Erik, are you all right?" she asked.

It took him a few seconds to reply, as if struck dumb by the fact she would ask such a question in her condition. "Never better," he said brusquely.

"Is Mellie going to d-die?" Peter asked, his voice cracking.

Erik answered without looking at him. "Of course not."

"I…um…could fetch a doctor," came the raspy, unexpected suggestion.

Pivoting around, he stared at Bain with an arched eyebrow. The man had risen and appeared to regard Melodie with actual concern. "I didn't mean to harm her. There's a doctor in town who could…"

"No doctor," Erik interrupted coldly. "She's…"

_She's mine._

"…my responsibility," he finished. Taking a step forward, he halted, realizing he couldn't leave without acknowledging Peter. His conscience, it seemed, wouldn't allow it. "Peter…" He waited until the boy looked up at him, tears still shimmering wetly in the bright eyes. "…I'm sorry."

Without waiting for a reaction, he turned his back on father and son, kneeling down by the injured woman's side. As he scooped her up in his arms, she moaned, biting her lip. He walked as fast as he dared, trying his best not to jostle her. Sascha trotted quietly along beside them, having returned to her usually serene nature. The house looked impossibly far in the distance and he scolded himself yet again; precious time had been wasted while he'd indulged himself in his brief interlude of madness. Though only a very few minutes had actually passed, it felt like an eternity had unfolded since he'd first arrived on the scene.

She was surprisingly light in his arms, even considering her petite stature; it only reminded him of how fragile she really was.

"Erik?"

"Yes, ma chère?"

Taking a downward glance at her face, he saw a ghost of a smile hover on her lips. "I like it when you call me that," she murmured. "Remember…when I said…that I've never fainted…in my life? I think I…"

The sentence was never completed, as she slipped into unconsciousness, her head lolling backwards. A sense of déjà vu washed over him as he increased the pace, beckoning a memory of the other woman he had once cradled so closely.

_Christine._

It had been many months since he'd thought of her. In fact, to his utter amazement, he could think of her now without wincing from the stab of loss and regret that used to plague him at the very breath of her name.

"Christine."

Speaking aloud this time, he tested the sound upon his lips and tongue. When he felt no clawing at his heart, no longing in his soul, a wondrous sense of freedom overcame him, as if the chains that bound him to the past had finally been severed.

Fearful of being buried by an avalanche of thoughts, he tried to keep them at bay for the rest of the trek. While Melodie had initially felt as light as a feather, by the time he reached the house, his shoulders and arms ached with the strain of supporting her. Sascha eagerly sought out her water bowl in the kitchen and Erik headed directly upstairs.

It felt strange to be in her chambers. He had not entered it since she arrived in his home, allowing this singular space to be her private haven. Laying her on the bed, he strode quickly to a storage chest and removed some blankets. The hem of her sodden dress had stopped dripping but it was still heavy with wetness. Though it took some maneuvering, he managed to settle her atop the blanket, hopefully preventing the dampness from soaking through to the sheets below.

As he swept a stray tendril of hair from her cheek, he was filled with a sudden doubt. He had acted out of pure impulse when he'd refused Bain's offer to find a doctor. In his experience, so-called men of medicine were inept, self-righteous, and arrogant fools who killed more patients than they saved. Having been kicked and beaten countless times over at the hands of his tormentor in the gypsy camp, Erik was no stranger to bruised ribs. Although terribly painful, they healed on their own. He was now making the assumption that Melodie suffered from the same ailment. However, he realized he couldn't be certain. Who was the arrogant one now? If she were to die because he hadn't allowed Bain to summon a doctor…

_She's not going to die. She's had her ribs bruised. That's all._

Simply making the statement wasn't enough to satisfy his confidence in the diagnosis. He would have to examine her and that would, of course, entail the removal of her clothing. Had Melodie been conscious, he wasn't sure which of them would be more mortified. His mouth setting into a grim line, he sought to regard the situation clinically and distance himself from any emotion; that was the only way he could get through this. He regarded her face once more, taking in the dark, curved lashes, tangled tresses and enticing freckles that stood out in contrast to her pale skin.

"Mellie," he said loudly.

There was no reaction from the unconscious woman, not even an involuntary twitch. In a way, he was relieved. It would be easier to do this when she wasn't awake and obviously uncomfortable with the impropriety of the act. His gaze dropping to the high neckline of her dress, he began the task of unbuttoning it, down to the waist. The buttons were entirely too dainty for his large hands but he worked steadily, finally parting the material to reveal the next layer. He frowned at the sight of the complex-looking corset and realized this might be more difficult than he had first anticipated. Seemingly of their own accord, his eyes travelled upwards to rest on the swell of her breasts, hidden beneath the plain white chemise.

A bolt of liquid arousal shot through him, coursing with such intensity that his hands shook. Forcefully averting his gaze, that didn't halt the flood of heat from spreading like wildfire, burning a path through every nerve ending. Though he hadn't anticipated being thrown into such a deep pool of desire, he was disgusted by his lack of self-control. The woman lay here, hurt and vulnerable, and he couldn't control the reactions of his lecherous mind and body. She deserved better than this – better than him.

As a rustling sound and a restless moan caught his ear, his eyes shifted back to her face. While she had previously looked peaceful, her eyebrows were now drawn together in a troubled expression, her head tossing from side to side. Another sound escaped her throat, more resembling a whimper this time. Concerned, he wasn't sure if she was in pain or in the throes of a nightmare.

"Mellie."

Although her eyes were tightly screwed shut, a lone tear leaked from one corner, trailing down her temple. He flicked away the moisture with his thumb, hating to see her like this.

"Mellie, if you can hear me, wake up."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_If she focuses on nothing but the simple art of breathing, she'll survive. Erik and Mr. Bain are arguing, their voices raised, but she can't waste her energy in trying to interpret what's happening._

_In and out. That's it, Mellie. Breathe in and out. Keep going…_

"_Erik! Erik, stop it. Mellie, make him stop!"_

_Peter's voice severs her concentration, steering her attention away from the burning, relentless pain in her chest. She can hear the distressed whining and gagging noises of a life being smothered. It must be Mr. Bain. Whatever Erik is doing to him, he must stop and come to his senses._

_She calls out to him._

_And when he laughs, the hopeless despair in the sound sends an icy shiver down her spine. What tragedies has he endured in the past to make him behave this way? Without even knowing a single detail, she knows the answer must be horrific. It's enough to break her heart._

"Mellie."

_Though he hides his emotions so expertly, every so often, a crack emerges, giving her the tiniest glimpse into his soul. He once told her that she would run screaming into the night if he truly revealed himself to her. Is he right? Is that what she would do?_

"Mellie, if you can hear me, wake up."

_Is she that much of a coward? Of course she isn't._

"I'm not a coward."

"What?"

"I'm not a coward!"

_Good Lord, why is she shouting? _

"Shhh, of course you're not, ma chère. Far from it."

_Ma chère, ma chère, ma chère…_

Her eyelids fluttered momentarily, then remained open, her eyes staring at a curtain of nothingness. She felt as if she'd just awakened from a dream, albeit the most realistic dream of her life. Taking a few seconds to regain her bearings, she first focused internally. Breathing seemed a little easier now, alleviating her earlier panic, and the pain had subsided somewhat. Erik had been carrying her and ironically, though she had just stopped him from killing a man, she felt perfectly safe in his arms. Then, presumably, she had fainted.

She was probably in her chambers, although the rough woollen surface beneath her hands seemed unfamiliar. It was a blanket perhaps, placed underneath her so as not to dampen her bed – a thoughtful gesture. Her wet feet and legs trapped under the soaked folds of her dress were discomfort enough. The room was silent but somehow, she knew he was there.

"Erik?"

"I'm right here."

"How long have I been…?"

"Not very long. Just a few minutes."

Tilting her head towards the low voice, she was reassured by his presence and yet, it wasn't enough. She lifted a hand, stretching her fingers outward. "Would you…please, come closer…so I may see your face?"

Seconds ticked by ever so slowly and she began to regret her impulsive request. He must be offended. Just as she was about to utter an apology, the face from her dreams filtered into view. The edges surrounding him were softened and blurred but the eyes…the eyes were the beautiful green that she remembered, piercing through to her very core. Without conscious thought, her hand strayed to the unmasked side of his face. He flinched but didn't draw back, continuing to hold himself stiffly, his eyes narrowing with wariness. Her fingertips finally connected with the warmth of his skin, surprisingly smooth to the touch. As she absently caressed his cheek, his eyelids closed, allowing her gaze to wander freely. Knowing this moment would be brief, she drank in every detail, from the crinkles adorning the corner of his eye to the intriguing curve of his mouth. "Thank you," she whispered, and all too soon, she was returned to her sightless world as he faded into another memory.

"How do you feel?" he asked.

"Better. The pain is more manageable now."

"Good. You should get out of your wet clothes. Once you've changed into another chemise, get into bed and wait for me."

Her jaw dropped. "Excuse me?"

"Forgive me, that certainly didn't come out as I intended." She could hear the wry humour in his tone. "What I mean to say is that I need to examine you. I'm fairly certain that your ribs have only been bruised but I would like to take a look for myself. I'm quite familiar with the injury. I just want to rule out any other possibilities."

The mere thought of having him examine her was enough to make her blush. "I hardly think it's necessary. I told you that I feel…"

"This is not a request, Mellie," he cut in abruptly. "I need to change into dry clothes myself. I shall return in fifteen minutes. I trust that will be sufficient time for you."

All she could do was gape after him as he exited the room and shut the door behind him. She wondered what he would do if he returned to find she had disobeyed his direct order.

_He'll probably undress you himself. You better get moving._

And considering she had no way of surveying her own injuries, she supposed it was the only viable option. With a frustrated sigh, she tried to pull herself into a sitting position but fell back immediately at the sudden flare of pain. Panting, she slid her legs over the side of the bed and slowly managed to stand upright with a lesser amount of discomfort. As her hands automatically went to where the top button of her dress should have been, she quickly discovered that the removal of her clothing had already been started.

_Bloody hell!_

Even the tips of her ears felt hot as she continued disrobing. Moving carefully with an awkwardness that slowed her down considerably, it must have taken the full fifteen minutes before she was changed into a shift. No doubt prompt to the second, a knock resounded on the door just as she tied the sash of her dressing gown about her waist. Without a word, she let him in and returned to the bed, propping up the pillow and sitting with her back against it. Hands nervously entwined in her lap, she waited.

He cleared his throat before speaking. "I believe you'll have to lower the neckline even further. I certainly see nothing amiss right now."

His observation made her feel like an idiot. Of course he couldn't see anything save perhaps two inches below her neck. Though she hadn't actually probed for any tender spot herself, she knew the injury was much lower. She would have to loosen the drawstring and slip her arms out. "Could you turn around, please," she said, hating how prim she sounded.

"All right. I'm turned."

"How do I know you're…never mind."

"You have my word…as a gentleman."

Though his tone gave nothing away, she was almost certain he was laughing at her. Working as quickly as possible and ignoring the protests of her ribs, she lied back down and retained her modesty by covering her bosom with the blanket. Announcing she was ready, she heard him pull up a chair. When his fingers found their target, she sucked in a breath, unable to hide her wince.

"Sorry," he said immediately, "I know how painful this is. The area is red and swollen but the skin hasn't broken. It seems like the last two ribs of your right side are affected. I'll make a compress with cold water. That should help ease some of the pain and swelling. You'll find it rather difficult to get around the next few weeks, I'm afraid."

"You really are familiar with this. Well, if you're quite finished, I should like to get up now. If you could…"

The chair squeaked slightly as he said, "I'm turning. Go ahead."

Since only a small portion of her body had been exposed and he had worked so efficiently, the anticipation had been worse than the actual examination. Relieved that it was over, she struggled to rearrange herself and sit back against her pillow once more. Getting up seemed to be more of an ordeal than lying down. She wrapped the dressing gown about her shoulders but didn't bother to tie it. "I'm done," she said, slightly winded from the exertion. "So, what actually happened to me? I have an idea, of course, but I know you…were arguing with Peter's father about it."

"He claims he was defending himself against Sascha by trying to kick her, as if that would be an acceptable excuse, and that you got in the way of his boot."

"I see."

So her guess had been correct. She supposed it was some consolation that he hadn't deliberately tried to hurt her. Nevertheless, it angered her to know he had tried to drag poor Sascha away by beating her into submission.

"I'm sorry."

The words were so quiet she barely heard them. "Sorry…for what?" she had to ask.

His voice gained in volume, sounding quite fervent. "I promised that nothing would harm you here, that I would keep you safe. I've failed you."

"Erik, this isn't your fault. That's ridiculous for you to even think that."

"Is it?"

"Yes, but…" Trailing off, her thoughts spun in turmoil, as she couldn't seem to unglue her tongue.

"But…?" he prompted.

What she was about to say was unrehearsed but it would be straight from her heart. It was the only way she could do this. "Erik, I…I want you to know that I've come to admire and care for you a great deal. Without a doubt, you are the most complex person I've ever met and I don't doubt there are still other sides of you that I haven't seen. You can be so kind and gentle and yet, I know you have a temper. I knew that when I came here. But what happened today…I can't just ignore it. You tried to kill that man. What if I had been unconscious or perhaps more severely injured? I may not have been able to stop you. There is such a well of anger and violence in you. It frightens me, I admit, but I'm more afraid _for_ you. I'm afraid that one day you'll be swallowed whole by this…this darkness and that I won't recognize you anymore. You'll be lost and might never return. And that _does _frighten me."

Pausing to give him a chance to respond, he said nothing, so she continued. "We've had an unspoken agreement not to delve into each other's personal affairs and I thought this could work, but not any longer. I've told you a little of my past but I still know absolutely nothing about you, except for the odd hint here and there. I'm asking you to trust me and share your burdens with me. I think you need to let them out. That's the only way you'll ever be free of those demons."

"And you think _talking _about them is going to help?" he spat, obviously in disbelief.

She tried not to take offense at his condescending tone. "It would be a start, yes. I want to help you and in order to do that I need to understand your past – or at least as much of it as you're willing to tell me. Please, Erik, don't push me away. You've helped me so much, in so many ways; I want to try to help you. You don't have to decide right away. Just tell me you'll think about it."

Never did a silence seem to fill a room as loudly as it did now. Chewing on her inner lip, she focused on keeping her fingers still in her lap, waiting as patiently as possible for his response.

She felt a slight pressure against her hair, then his fingers caressing the hairline above her ear so lightly, she thought she might have imagined it. "Your hair is terribly tangled and it will be difficult for you to brush it. Would you allow me?"

Nonplussed, she could only murmur, "Certainly."

Swinging her legs so they dangled over the edge of the bed, she wondered what could possibly be going through his mind. He returned with the brush and she closed her eyes, feeling an overwhelming weariness come upon her. The bristles stroked through her hair, occasionally getting caught on a knot, but he took care not to tug overly hard. Just when she thought she might drift off to sleep right where she sat, his voice spoke softly.

"I'll think about it."

* * *

A/N: I would like to take a poll from my readers. My chapters tend to be fairly long, which is why I update only once a week. As an alternative, I could write shorter chapters and update more often. I'm just wondering which you prefer, or perhaps you have no preference? Please let me know, thanks. 

To allegratree: While I highly respect your opinion, I disagree with the smirking issue. I feel Erik can be immature at times and may smirk in those moments. Since he is wearing the half-mask, it would even be visible (even if it were not visible, it was told from his perspective, so I think it's okay the way it's written). I only mention this because I just may use the "smirk" again, though I promise not to overuse it. I know that if I do, you will let me know with a "krims" flame – yes, I have looked at the key :-)

Thanks to my beta, penkitten, and thank you to all who have reviewed, especially those who have de-lurked to throw a comment my way. It helps inspire me to keep going.


	15. Ch 14: The Man Behind The Monster

For the next several days, Erik attempted to keep himself too busy to think. Initially, he centered his attention on Melodie, trying to accommodate every possible need. If he stopped to analyse his behaviour, he supposed it could be linked to guilt, however misplaced it seemed. Each time her breathing appeared laboured or her face creased with pain, the sting of guilt propelled him to her side, trying to assist her in some way. His efforts were received with appreciation the day following the incident. On the second day, she grumbled that she was not an invalid. By the third morning, she snappishly informed him that while his intentions were all well and good, his smothering was irritating her nerves. Understanding that she took fierce pride in her independence, he took a step back and granted her the space she desired.

Work on the symphony continued but at a less frenetic pace. Although he had suggested putting it to the side while she recovered, she wouldn't hear of it. Whenever she grew tired, they simply took a break, sometimes reconvening later if she felt up to it. Since he was no longer permitted to hover by her side, he filled his time in other ways, with a preference for physically taxing activities – horseback riding, going for walks with Sascha and in to town for supplies, repairing things around the home that had long been neglected, even scouring and polishing the house from top to bottom until every surface gleamed. As long as he kept himself occupied, he didn't have to reflect on the foolish statement he had uttered.

_I'll think about it._

When he could no longer avoid turning in for the night, he lay in bed with eyes open yet unseeing, his mind finally succumbing to thoughts he'd managed to elude during the day. The countryside was still and dormant but he remained alert, restless, and torn with uncertainty.

Madame Giry was the only person to whom he had opened up to about his past. She had, after all, literally saved his life and yet even she did not know every detail of the horrors he longed to forget. There were some secrets that would stay with him to the grave.

On one level, he realized he was being hypocritical. He had already crossed that line from professional to personal by pressing Melodie for specifics from her past, even stooping to a mild manipulation by parroting her own "philosophy" – always being honest with each other. Should he not extend her the same courtesy?

There was a glaring difference, however, between their selves that made him twist desperately with indecision, as if he dangled from a hangman's noose. She was an innocent, with a purity of heart, much as Christine had been. In the end, it was the rotten blackness of his soul that had driven her away, straight into the arms of another man. He was afraid – deathly afraid – that just as Christine had fled, so too would Melodie upon discovering the truth of all that tainted him.

_But Mellie is not Christine. She's older, more mature, has an inner strength that Christine never possessed – and she did not tear off your mask._

When Melodie had regained consciousness and asked to see his face, he'd stiffened with suspicion. And when her hand lifted, he imagined her fingers like talons, extending out to cruelly snatch away the protective mask. The coolness of her fingertips met his unmarred cheek, stroking with such gentleness that his eyes closed of their own volition. It was a moment of surrender, of making himself vulnerable to her feminine whim. His breath stopped – time itself stopped – and his heart thudded painfully in dreaded anticipation.

There was no unmasking, no exposure of his deformity, only a faint, whispered 'thank you'. The brief contact between them, from hand to cheek, had meant reassurance to the both of them in very different ways.

Twice now, Melodie – or the mere thought of her – had been able to pull him back from the alluring call of madness. The root of the power she seemed to hold over him was truly baffling. No one had ever affected him this way before. That was almost reason enough to grant her wish.

So while those with clean, guilt-free consciences slept soundly in their beds, he pondered the possibility of sharing his burdens with her. In fact, he thought about it for almost a week and still remained undecided. There was only one thing he knew with the utmost certainty: the devastation of losing Christine had nearly driven him insane with rage and despair; to lose Melodie would be a sentence to death, for the next time insanity lured him to the edge, there would be no one to stop him from tumbling into the abyss.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Another day had come and gone, and evening arrived with darkened, stormy skies. Billowing grey clouds had been threatening of rain all day and finally, the first few drops spattered onto the wooden floorboards. Erik hastened to shut the door, just as the downpour began. As he placed the last of the dishes away in the cupboard, he listened with interest to the music that wafted from the other room. Melodie had been playing the piano for the last little while, not any one piece, but snippets of works from various sources. Some he recognized but many were unfamiliar and he wondered if they were from the library of her own compositions. The current melody was unlike any of the others and curiosity drew him out of the kitchen.

Dressed in a plain, ivory housedress with her hair tied back in a ribbon, she appeared rather childlike. The delicate plucking of the notes ceased when she noticed his presence.

"Don't stop on my account," he said.

"I'm just playing at random. It's of no import." Her head tilted slightly. "The rain has come at last. I hope it will cool things down."

Stepping forward, he leaned atop the piano, regarding her. "I'm curious about the last piece you were playing. It was charming."

She chuckled lightly, almost seeming embarrassed. "That's kind of you to say. It's part of the first composition I ever wrote. Very simplistic, naturally, and for some reason, I still remember it to this day."

His interest was further piqued by this revelation. "How old were you?"

"I was eight."

So, she had been musically gifted as a child as well. Perhaps it was this knowledge of a unique, shared ability that loosened his tongue quite unexpectedly. "I was six when I composed my first work. When my father discovered my gift, which he was sure had been bestowed upon me by the devil, it was the final straw. He sold me to a band of gypsies the next day."

"S-sold you? How could he…but your mother…?"

"I believe my mother loved me, in her own way, but she was a weak, submissive woman. The weight of my father's fists and the garbage that spewed from his mouth were constant…unrelenting. She couldn't fight for herself, let alone her child." He paused, wondering what Melodie would say, but no words fell from her lips. Her eyes spoke volumes, however, gazing upwards with undisguised sorrow. After all the days and nights of indecision, it had come to this. "Are you sure, Mellie, that you want to hear the tale of a monster? Once I begin, there will be no turning back. I will reveal it all to you and hide nothing, for you deserve the absolute truth. There is a chance…a very good chance…that you will never think of me the same way again. The man that you believe yourself to admire may crumble before you and what is left will be my true self – someone you might very well despise. Are you certain you are ready, mademoiselle?"

If she had answered quickly and without hesitation, he would have known she was lying or at the very least, deceiving herself. However, with a pensive expression settling upon her face, it took her a long, drawn out moment to reply.

"Yes, I am ready."

"Then let us be seated more comfortably. We have a long night ahead of us."

After leading Melodie to the couch, he lit a candle and then settled down beside her, deciding to begin at the very beginning.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_I've been told that my birth was a difficult one and that my mother nearly died from the copious loss of blood. I was born prematurely, a tiny, scrawny thing, perfectly formed save for half my face. My father took one look at me and saw not his son, but a repulsive creature that God had cursed him with for some unknown reason. He blamed my mother for having spawned me, for surely it was punishment for her wickedness. Had he not been a devout Catholic, he would have put me out of my misery – and his – but both my mother and I miraculously lived._

_Until my mother recovered, I had not even a name. She called me Erik, after her father. I have no surname, for while my father grudgingly allowed me shelter in his home for the first part of my childhood, he refused to acknowledge that I shared his lineage. _

_My mother created a mask for me and I learned very early on to never, ever allow my father to see me without it. We had a nightly bedtime ritual, he and I. I would kneel on the cold, hard floor by my bed, while he thrust a small mirror at me. With my mask removed, I stared at my hated reflection and prayed to God to forgive me for my sins. While I had no idea what sins I had committed, I must have done something to deserve my deformity and my father's contempt. Only once had I carelessly stepped into his view without my mask. He beat me to a bloody pulp for my insolent act, and my mother suffered the same blows for having allowed it to happen._

_Although I had no knowledge of the outside world, I had an odd sense of self-awareness. I knew that something other than my face set me apart from others. My mother was my only companion and she introduced me to music. We had a piano and violin in our home, passed on by my grandfather. From the age of four, I played both instruments flawlessly. I also learned I could sing, often making my mother weep from the pure beauty of my voice._

_These abilities of mine were kept secret from my father, of course, but as is usually the case, it was inevitable that he would one day stumble upon them. I can still recall the expression on his face when he heard me playing the piano, singing one of my own compositions; it was one of rapt awe. When I saw him standing there, staring at me as if in a trance, I was terrified, certain that I was about to receive a thorough beating – or worse, that he would smash the piano to pieces. Rather than being relieved, I should have known something was terribly wrong when he walked away without saying a word._

_The next morning, I was yanked from my bed and marched downstairs. Upon exclaiming that I did not have my mask, he muttered that it was not required. I knew then that I was doomed. My mother cried and begged, throwing herself at his feet, but he only kicked her aside and coldly stated that he was about to do something that should have been done long ago. We walked forever down a country path but I did not attempt to flee, only covering the right side of my face with two small hands, riddled with shame. When we entered what I now know to be a gypsy camp, I was frightened and confused. A tall, bearded man threw aside the shield of my hands and grinned with sheer fascination at the nightmare of my face. Tinkling, silver coins were exchanged and still I did not comprehend what was happening – not until my father turned and strode away, leaving me in the clutches of the stranger. He had always forbidden me to address him as 'Father' but at that moment of abandonment, I screamed it over and over again, hoping to stir some wisp of compassion in his heart. _

_He never looked back._

_As my tears dried, I instinctively knew that I had just been condemned to a fate worse than death. While part of me wanted to collapse with defeat, another part of me, stronger and more demanding, rose up to take over my being. It was the same will to survive that had sustained me as an infant. I had no need of God, my father, or even my mother; I could only look to myself._

_Approximately five years passed as I travelled with the gypsies from town to town, throughout France and into other parts of Europe. I was housed in a cage and put on display for anyone who desired to gawk at "the Devil's Child". Since I was treated like an animal, I behaved like one, for I didn't want to disappoint my paying customers. I did not speak, preferring to snarl and bite. There was an occasion where a man's hand strayed too far between the bars of the cage and I foolishly tore a chunk out of his flesh. I never saw the fist of my keeper that slammed into my ear, rendering me unconscious for at least two days. _

_Only one bloom of a rare sort of happiness was permitted to flourish on the odd day that my keeper was in good spirits – usually when there was an unexpected volume of coins showered into my cage. The gypsies were great lovers of music and I often heard them singing and carousing with a detached kind of longing. I once meekly asked for the violin and though roaring with laughter, he tossed it to me with a look of bemusement. When I started playing, however, he stood stock still with a dazed expression of wonder. Without any false sense of arrogance, I knew my skills far exceeded the best fiddler in the camp. From that day on, I lived for those fleeting few moments of pleasure when he would wordlessly hand me the violin. As I touched bow to string, coaxing the most beautiful melodies out of the instrument, the gypsies all hovered round, like bees gathering to nectar. Music flowed over me, washing away the stench and filth of the hell that had become my life, if only for those few minutes. And for the first time in my bleak existence, even while trapped in my cage, I felt powerful._

_We had returned to France – Paris, to be exact. Having been away from the country for at least two years, it was infinitely pleasing to hear French being spoken again. The night of my escape had been unremarkable, except for a young group of girls who closed in around the bars. It was always hardest to bear the prying eyes of children my own age, for it never failed to stab me with anger and resentment. Why should they be free while I was imprisoned? They all chortled and jeered at me except for one girl who seemed older than the rest, gazing at me with pity. When my keeper entered the cage and he dealt me the usual blows, raining down on bruises that never had a chance to heal, something inside me snapped. I'm not sure how it happened but somehow, a rope was between my hands and then around his neck. With the strength of years of hatred and fury in my thin arms, I strangled him until he was dead. How can I explain to you the wild and thrilling joy that I felt as I regarded his bulging, lifeless eyes? I wanted to both howl with laughter and scream with triumph, though I didn't dare make a sound. Even when the police were closing in, I didn't think to run until the quiet girl with the shocked face grabbed my hand through the open door. Fleeing together, she hid me within the sanctuary of the Paris opera house._

_Her name is Therese Giry and she saved my life. We grew up together in the theatre – she as a ballerina in the dormitories and me, five levels down in the bowels below. She became my contact with the outside world, giving me everything I could possibly need, including food, clothing, and most importantly, books. I read voraciously on every possible subject matter, from music and architecture, to mathematics and magic. There was nothing that didn't interest me._

_Years passed and as I crossed the threshold from boy to man, books were no longer enough to sustain me. I wanted to conquer the real world. Fearing for my safety, Therese tried to dissuade me but I was determined. I assured her that one day, I would return. My travels took me across Europe and even further, to exotic lands such as Persia. I learned many arts, not from the written page, but from dark, mysterious men who first viewed me as an amusing companion, yet soon came to fear me. Not only did I become highly proficient with a sword and Punjab lasso, but my alluring voice could also charm and hypnotize a man into practically handing over his weapon. Many attempts were made on my life during that dangerous phase of my journey and I killed without compunction, though always in self-defence. Well, that is not entirely true and I did promise you the absolute truth. There was a singular time I accepted money to assassinate a man. I only did it once, as I found it quite distasteful, even knowing that the victim was an unjust and brutal man. Income was found in other ways, such as picking the pockets of the wealthy, and only the very wealthy at that._

_There came a time when I grew weary of it all – the foreign lands and the innate cruelty of people. Just as I had reassured Therese, I returned home to Paris. I found that while much had remained the same at the opera house, some things had changed. For instance, Therese was recently widowed and had a young daughter. I couldn't impose upon her time and good will to the extent I once had. Besides, I was much more resourceful and independent now. And having experienced a taste of society, I was content to live in peace and solitude in the comfortable lair that I created._

_That is, until _she_ came along._

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The muted, candlelit glow of the room flashed for a split second with white light before fading away and in the distance, Melodie heard the answering rumble of thunder. Almost simultaneously, she detected a change in Erik's tone as he talked about _her._ Until now, he'd spoken without any hint of emotion, as if the monumental events of his life had happened to someone else. But as he told her about Christine Daaé, there were subtle nuances in his voice – a tenderness and wistfulness that made her wonder how this particular tale would end.

Melodie's head was already bloated and swimming with all that had been exposed. She couldn't stop to think about any of it now. All she could do was try to absorb the details as they continued to pour out of his mouth. She learned of how Christine had come to live in the dormitories as a young child, how Erik had fondly watched her grow into a young woman, his deepening obsession with first her voice and then the desperate need of wanting to possess her body and soul, his contempt and hatred of one Vicomte de Chagny. He told her of yet another killing, a stagehand who perished for no other reason than being in the wrong place at the wrong time when Erik had been at the height of one of his unstoppable rages.

Her ribs were starting to ache again, her head was pounding and she felt ill, yet she dared not ask him to stop. Although she had no idea of the time, it was late and she was exhausted. Erik continued on, now describing the night of the great opera house disaster and the final time he brought Christine to his lair. When he spoke of their kiss, though he did so without any sort of embellishment, she couldn't help feeling a pang of jealousy.

He had yet to reveal the Vicomte's fate. As much as it pained her to even think it, she didn't know if she could find it in her heart to excuse another senseless murder. Perhaps Erik had been right all along. It was almost too awful to believe, but there was the very real possibility that at the end of this night, she would no longer think of him the same way again.

"…so I let him go. I let them both go."

For the first time since he had begun this tale, her attention had wavered. "What did you say? You let Christine and the Vicomte go?"

"Yes. Christine didn't love me…couldn't possibly love me. She loved the boy. I'd had enough of the violence and madness, so I let them go. I'm sure they're living happily ever after," he added sardonically. "I avoided the mob by using the underground tunnels. After hiding for a couple of days, I returned to my lair. It was ransacked, of course, and many valuables were gone, but I had my savings well hidden. The ruin of the theatre and rumours of the Phantom made it too dangerous for me to stay in Paris. I came here to England, bought this home, and led a very quiet life for two years. Then, we met and…I'm very glad we did."

At long last, they had come full circle to the present. Melodie was greatly relieved that Erik had not succumbed to killing the Vicomte after all. It gave her a flare of hope that he could safely emerge from this history of bloodlust without drowning in its depths.

His voice had grown rather hoarse from the continuous talking. "I have a question to ask you."

Pulling together her scattered wits, she tried to prepare herself. "Yes?"

"You have never inquired about my mask. Why?"

"I…suppose I didn't want to be rude. And perhaps, because of my lack of sight, I don't think about people's appearance as much as I may have in the past."

"I see," he murmured, before pausing for a very long moment. "Mellie, there is one more step in this promise to reveal everything to you. This…" His voice faltered, cracked, until he cleared his throat and tried again. "This is very difficult for me. The last time my mask was removed was, shall we say, an extremely unpleasant experience. Part of me can't even comprehend what I'm about to do, but it must be done. Are you ready, ma chère?"

Not trusting herself to speak, she resorted to nodding, attempting to steel herself against whatever was coming next. She had always assumed he must be hiding a disfigurement of some sort beneath the mask and now she knew he had been born with it – and suffered greatly because of it. However horrified she might be, she was determined to control her reaction.

Just as it had happened in the past, his face swam ever so slowly into bleary focus. A strangled gasp almost made it past her throat but she managed to swallow it just in time. If she was not seeing this face before her very eyes, she would not have believed it possible; the left side was so perfect, so strikingly handsome and the right, God help her, could only be described as monstrous. The skin was a sickly yellow, mottled with queer lumps in some places and concavities in others. Its texture was a strange mishmash of thick, almost scaly patches and areas so thin the skin appeared translucent. The flesh and blood underneath were visible and the skin atop it appeared entirely too fragile; she feared a single touch would make it burst. His cheek was twisted and distorted, as if the bone beneath had shattered and frozen in place, rendering its surface with jagged peaks and valleys.

Her gaze next regarded the right side of his nose, which was – simply not there. It extended down normally from his face, but where the tip or nostril should have been, was a gaping void. Finally, she looked up to see how his right eye was slightly sunken into his face, sitting a little lower than the other eye. The ghastly skin puckered around it, extending up through the forehead and into the hairline. Only now did she notice that he had been wearing a wig as well. His real hair was a light shade of brown, seemingly full on the normal side, but straggly and sparse on the right.

She had viewed it all and now she had to react, not just sit here blankly. It had taken enormous courage for him to do this. Her eyes met his and though the exposure of his entire face almost made him unrecognizable, the beauty within his eyes remained the same. While she had previously seen a glimpse of the haunted expression that filled them now, this was the first time she had ever seen fear.

Her tone was matter-of-fact. "Well, it certainly isn't pretty." The naked fear in his gaze flickered with surprise at her statement and even she was shocked by her quip; it seemed to come out of nowhere. As they faced each other on the couch, she exhaled a breath and hesitantly raised her hand, not sure of how he would react. When he didn't pull back, she briefly, gently pressed her palm against the ravages of his cheek. It felt rough, warm, and possibly not as fragile as it seemed. "Does it hurt?" she asked quietly.

His eyes widened, as if stunned by the question. "No one has ever asked me that before. No, it's never been painful. You…you can bear to look at me? To touch me?"

She contemplated her answer carefully. "Yes, I can bear it. You are still Erik and you are still a man. There is no monster here, unless you believe yourself to be one in your heart."

He struggled with his words, sounding sluggish as he glanced away from her. "I want…to be a man but…the things I've done…can you forgive me?"

"You have been nothing but kind and good to me. I have nothing to forgive. It is you who must forgive yourself." She touched his cheek again, waiting until his desperate eyes found hers once more. "If you had killed the Vicomte, who sounds like a noble and decent man who truly loved Christine, you would have been right – I would not have been able to look upon you again without seeing a murderer and nothing else. But you let him go. You let Mr. Bain go. It's not too late for you, Erik. You've already begun to start a new life and now it's time to let go of the past."

"And will you…be a part of my new life?"

Unsure of the entirety of what he was asking, she hesitated, but answered truthfully. "I'm not going anywhere."

Squeezing his eyes shut, his face crumpled and fell out of sight. She felt a sharp tug on her dress and reached out with her hands, finding the top of his head. He had dropped to the floor and now buried his face, just above her knees. The sound was very faint but she heard it; he was crying.

Having the towering strength of this man reduced to kneeling on the floor, clutching and weeping into the folds of her dress, startled her at first. Then, the reason came to her with such clarity and simplicity – she wasn't leaving him. At the very heart of it, that is what had frightened him the most.

She bent forward, ignoring the strain on her ribs, one of her hands gently entwining within the soft strands of his hair, the other rubbing at his back. At long last, a delayed reaction to everything Erik had told her tonight hit her with an invisible force, knocking the breath from her. Like every human being in this world, he had been born pure and innocent. Perhaps God had blessed him with extraordinary genius to somehow compensate for the deformity. He should have been sheltered and nurtured but instead, he'd been cast out of his home, out of society, and suffered unimaginable abuse. Tears welled in her eyes as she thought about the cruelties he'd endured at the hands of his father, the gypsy, and even his mother – a woman who, above anyone else, should have fought with every fiber of her being to protect him.

He had been rejected by everyone in his life and somehow, she understood that had she turned away in disgust from his face, proclaiming that she could no longer stay in his presence, it would have killed him.

The lump in her throat grew painful, the tears finally streaking down her face as she continued to rub circles against his back. Beneath her hand, his muscles trembled and she murmured wordless, soothing sounds.

And while the thunderstorm raged outside, rain pelting noisily against the window, they held each other until their tears ran dry.

* * *

A/N: Portions of this chapter have been inspired by various sources, including Leroux, Kay, the 2004 film, and my own imagination. This chapter is very important to me, so I hope I've done it justice.

Thanks to anyone who voted for Deception in the Reader's Choice Awards. Though it didn't win, I was thrilled to receive some votes. As always, thanks to my beta, penkitten.

And thank youfor the overwhelming response I received on the chapter issue. As so many of you indicated you like the longer chapters, and it's my preference as well, I will continue to post them as such. I'm glad this story has caught some new readers along the way. Please continue to tell me what's good (and bad!) about this story. I'm not a professional writer (guess I wouldn't be posting here if I was!)but I assure you, I'm mature enough to handle constructive criticism.


	16. Ch 15: A Friend And Father

Since that stormy night, they hadn't talked about all that had come out into the open, yet something seemed to have shifted in their relationship. It was intangible and difficult to explain but perhaps the closest word Melodie could think of was 'friendship'. No longer could she think of Erik on strictly professional terms and a tentative bond between them had formed. She now understood the reason behind the dark current of anger that flowed through him. Given the extent of everything he had experienced in the past, she wasn't sure if he would ever be completely free of it. He seemed to walk a tightrope with his emotions and usually, he was able to control the anger; it only slipped under extreme circumstances. Perhaps that was the best that he could do and in all fairness, the most that anyone could ask of him.

After the initial shock of all that she had heard that night had worn off, she found herself besieged by questions. There was so much more she longed to know but was afraid to ask. It might be too much too soon and she did not wish to shatter that fragile bond.

There was one point she wanted to make clear, however. She told him that he did not have to feel the mask was a necessity – not in her presence and not in his own house. He replied that he usually wore it even when he was alone, unless it grew uncomfortable after a long day. It had been ingrained in him for so long, he confessed to feeling naked without it.

Feeling rather bold, she had then asked to see the mask, admitting that she was curious as to how it remained so impeccably in place. Though she wasn't sure if he would object, the mask was placed into her hands. Inspecting it closely, she marveled at its simplistic but ingenious design. Made of white leather and surprisingly lightweight, there was a wire loop that attached to its side. A small spring and a clasp allowed it to snugly fit over the ear. Erik told her that a talented leather craftsman cut the mask to custom-fit his face, but he designed the critical wire attachment himself. After much trial and error, he managed to find the perfect balance so it sat properly.

It took another week and several days before Melodie felt fully recovered from her injury. Initially, even the simplest of tasks pained her, such as going down the stairs, or even laughing. She was now feeling like herself again and work on the symphony fell back into its usual routine. There were two more weeks left in their schedule before the completed work was expected to be submitted. That would allow the orchestra three weeks to rehearse before opening night. Although progress had been slowed during her recovery, they were still in good shape. In the next week, they would likely complete the last movement and then spend the remaining time going over the work as a whole.

She sat at the piano now, trying out a variation of a theme from the first movement. For the last twenty minutes, she'd been stuck on this one maddening little thorn. Frowning, she altered it slightly but remained unpleased.

Erik was seated at the adjacent table and apparently noticed her mood. "What is it?" he inquired.

"I don't like this." Playing it for him, she silently waited for his reaction.

"It is a little awkward," he agreed. As he slid next to her on the bench, she shifted over to make room. "Is this for the woodwinds?"

"Yes, for the clarinet."

He made a humming sound under his breath before saying, "How about this?" He tapped out yet another version of the original theme but also changed the key.

"Yes, that's it!" she exclaimed with delight. "How do you _do_ that?"

"Musical genius. It comes with the territory," he intoned drolly.

"Oh, indeed?" Turning towards him with mock indignation, she asked, "And how about arrogant conceit?"

Laughing eyes and an upwardly curled lip came into focus. "I have that in spades too."

With her own mouth finally succumbing to an amused smile, she wondered if a kiss would wipe the grin from his face. Shocked by her own wild thought, her eyes flew to his, only to find that his gaze now seemed to be fastened on her lips. Her smile fading, her heart kicked up such a drumming rhythm, it threatened to pounce right out of her chest.

A knock on the front door made them both jump back. "He's early," Erik muttered, sounding irritated.

Henry was coming by for a visit today but wasn't expected until early evening. As the warmth of Erik's body left Melodie's side, she couldn't help feeling frustrated. She was certain that he had just been about to kiss her – or had it been her imagination? Now she would never know.

"Peter, what are you doing here? Is something wrong?" Erik's startled questions floated from across the room.

"No."

"Does your father know you're here?"

"He knows."

Peter's voice seemed to be coming closer and Melodie swung around on the bench. "Mellie, you're all right!" Running feet dashed towards her and she found herself in a sudden embrace.

"Be mindful of her injury," Erik scolded.

She waved off his concern. "It's fine. What a nice surprise. It's good to see you too." Returning the hug, she patted the child's back. Just as quickly as the arms tightened around her, she was released as he chattered away.

"I wanted to come before but my father wouldn't let me. Not until today. He wanted to know if you're all right."

"Oh, well, I'm doing quite fine, as you can see," she said.

"He feels awful about what happened."

"Does he, now," Erik interjected dryly.

"He says that I…can have my lessons with you but only sometimes. Not as often as before."

Although this was good news, Melodie didn't hear the expected excitement in the boy's tone. He spoke with hesitation, as if unsure that he really wanted the lessons to continue, and she was fairly certain of the reason why. "You don't sound very happy about that. Is it because of what happened with Erik and your father?" There was no reply but she was pleased when Erik cleared his throat and stepped in without further prodding on her part.

"I'm sorry about what happened that day. I know I frightened you. I let my anger get the better of me. It won't happen again."

"But…you said if you ever saw another bruise on me, you would…" Sounding shaky and unable to finish the sentence, Peter's voice trailed off.

It took Erik a few seconds to respond. "It was just a threat. I wanted him to know how strongly I felt about him hurting you. Has he hit you since that day?"

"No."

"Maybe I actually got through to him. You need not worry, Peter. I have a temper but I'm learning to control it. I won't harm your father again."

"Promise?"

"Yes, I promise."

Apparently satisfied, Peter asked if he could stay for a lesson now. Erik informed him that he would be busy for the next little while, but to come again after a fortnight. When the boy had gone, he said ruefully, "I don't know if I handled that very well."

"You handled it just fine," Melodie assured him.

"It's hard to believe Bain has had such a change of heart."

"As you said, perhaps you got through to him."

"Perhaps," Erik said, though he didn't sound convinced.

Afraid that she might be risking his ire, she paused but asked the question anyway. "Did you make that promise to Peter just to placate him?"

"No, I meant what I said. But if Bain does return to his old ways, there are other means of making him see the light. Don't look so alarmed, Mellie. I have no intention of raising a hand against him again. I have other ways of being, shall we say, persuasive. Now, where were we before this interruption? Ah yes, the variation. I assume you want to insert it before the coda?"

Melodie nodded vaguely, still musing over his strange answer. She had no idea how to interpret what he meant by 'persuasive'. It was another mystery that was part of Erik's dubious charm.

And though it was silly, she was quite disappointed that he went straight to the table to begin writing, rather than returning to her side. Withholding a sigh, she swivelled around to face the piano once more.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Staring at the run of notes in front of him, Erik blinked, realizing he was repetitively going over the same phrase and getting nowhere. Giving up for the moment, he tossed aside the quill and sat back in the chair, stretching out his arms.

Henry and Melodie were in the kitchen, talking over a pot of tea. He had arrived a little over an hour late, apologizing profusely. There had been some drama at the Wentworths that he needed to deal with – one of the housemaids had been accused of stealing. Other than the delayed start, the meal and conversation had been pleasant. Most of the awkwardness between himself and Henry had eased over the past few months.

Despite his initial reservations, Erik was becoming fond of the man. He was gentle and kind, with an easy nature and a quick laugh. His relationship with Melodie was a loving one and Erik often found himself watching the two of them, enjoying their rapport. That kind of closeness was something foreign to him. Even with Madame Giry, there had always been a formality between them that had prevented them from becoming overly familiar with each other. In fact, he had preferred it that way. It was best to keep people at bay. At least, that had always been his philosophy until a certain doe-eyed female composer had somehow crept her way under his skin.

More than a week had gone by since he had revealed himself to her. Each morning, he seemed to hold his breath until he was sure that she hadn't fled during the night. The rational side of him knew that should she decide to leave, she wouldn't vanish without a word; she simply wasn't that cruel. But there was another part of him – the abandoned child – that still expected to wake up one day to find her gone. The fact that she remained after seeing his face and looking into his past was nothing short of miraculous to him.

_I'm not going anywhere._

After hearing those words, he'd wanted to kiss her hands, her feet, and every inch of her. Instead, all he could do was weep, clinging to her like a distraught child as she comforted him with murmuring sounds and warm arms. After the storm passed, a sweet calmness had washed over him. It was a feeling he'd never experienced before and one that he hadn't been able to name until days later.

_Peace._

Even now, remembering that moment, the same sense of quiet tranquility seemed to embrace him. Perhaps Melodie had been right. Maybe opening up to her had been the first step in trying to forge a new life. For the first time in a long while, he had hope that it could become a reality, not just wishful thinking.

A glance at the clock on the mantel told him it was growing late. As if on cue, Henry emerged into view with Melodie on his arm and Erik rose up from the chair.

"I didn't realize the time," Henry said, appearing a little rumpled and tired. "You're still hard at work, I see."

"Just taking a break, actually, " Erik said.

Melodie averted her head to stifle a yawn. "Well, I'm ready to call it a night." She patted Henry's arm. "Shall I walk out with you?"

"No, that's all right. If Erik doesn't mind, I hoped to speak with him for a few minutes."

Mildly surprised, Erik saw the same look mirrored on Melodie's face. "Oh. I shall just say goodnight, then." Giving the older man a brief hug and kiss on the cheek, she wound her way across the room. "Goodnight, Erik."

Even though the motion would be lost on her, he nodded. "Goodnight."

Unable to help feeling a tad ill at ease, he took a seat across from Henry. With his face half hidden by the mask, however, he was confident that his discomfiture wasn't obvious. "I hope I've done nothing to warrant another warning from you," he said, recalling the last time they had faced each other like this.

"On the contrary, I wanted to thank you for taking such fine care of Mellie when she was injured. She told me what happened."

Wondering exactly how detailed she had been in relaying the story, Erik simply said, "No trouble at all. She seems to have recovered well."

"Yes. She speaks very highly of you."

He honestly didn't know how to respond to that, but Henry was eyeing him steadily and seemed to expect some sort of reaction. "That's kind of you to say," he said cautiously. "I have the utmost respect for her as well."

"Both personally and professionally?"

Erik was quite certain now that he was being baited. Saying nothing, he simply waited for whatever was coming next and at last, Henry resumed speaking. "It's quite all right, Erik. Mellie also tells me that the two of you have moved beyond that rather ridiculous rule of knowing each other on strictly professional terms. Don't worry, she didn't go into any detail, other than to say that you've overcome many obstacles in your life. I'm sure you're wondering where on earth I'm going with all of this. It's not like me to ramble but it has been a long day and I get like this when I'm tired. I know how independent Mellie is but I can't help worrying about her. She was like a gift to me, that child. To this day, I shudder to think what would have befallen her had circumstances been different. Did you know she's originally from France as well?"

Raising an eyebrow at that startling revelation, Erik said, "No, I didn't."

"I was in Paris, visiting my sister for a while. On one of my walks, I heard the cry of an infant, just as I passed between two buildings. I discovered a baby, wrapped in a blanket and I can only presume, left to die in that alley. Although I knocked on a few doors in the vicinity, no one knew the child. My sister had her own life and didn't want the burden of a baby. I suppose I could have gone to the authorities but I couldn't bear the thought of her being relegated to an orphanage. So, I took her back with me and raised her on my own. Do you think me a foolish man, Erik?"

Slowly shaking his head, both in answer to the question and from thorough disbelief at the tale, Erik replied, "No. Most men would have turned aside and ignored her cries or handed her over to a cold, sterile institution. You've raised her with love and supported her in every way. I think you are a most admirable man."

He found himself swaying between compassion and anger at the tragic beginnings of Melodie's life. It seemed they shared yet another similarity from their childhood and frankly, he couldn't decide which was worse – being sold off like some trinket or being thrown into the street with the sewage. "Does Mellie know…?"

Henry expelled a slight sigh. "Yes, she knows. As she got older and started asking questions, I considered making up a pretty fairy tale but in the end, I told her the honest truth. And if you wonder why she calls me Henry when I would dearly love to hear her call me Father, I have Mrs. Wentworth to thank for that. She thought it entirely improper for an unwed man such as myself to rear a child on my own. The only way she allowed it was for me to assume the role of a caregiver, not a father."

The coldness in that logic flayed Erik's nerves, setting his mouth into a flat line. "Regardless of what she calls you, you are her father in every way. I understand that now."

Briefly rubbing at his temple, Henry leaned forward and gave Erik another direct look. "You've patiently endured my ramblings. Thank you for that. Now to get to the heart of the matter, have you decided whether to make an appearance on opening night?"

Hesitating for only a moment, Erik responded, "Yes, I've decided not to attend. I'm not particularly fond of public appearances. I'm sure you understand."

"Yes…yes, of course I do."

Though Henry said nothing more, his expression was pensive and Erik sensed that the man was holding something back. He couldn't believe the whole point of this conversation had merely been curiosity about whether he was brave enough to face a crowd. "What's on your mind, Henry?" he asked.

"Well, I'm sure I'm worrying over nothing but…if you were to attend that night, I was going to ask you to keep an eye on Mellie for me."

"Why?"

Henry spoke slowly, as if choosing his words carefully. "It has to do with the son of the family I work for, David Wentworth…"

The familiar name made Erik bristle instantly, as he rasped, "_Him_, that _fils de_…" Before the endearment could be completed, he swallowed hard, snapping, "What about him? Don't tell me he plans to be there."

"I'm afraid he does. He's been pestering me about information on Mellie. I tell him nothing, of course, but the opening of the theatre and the new symphony are public knowledge. He knows she wouldn't miss it. I, um, take it you know about his harassment of her?"

Afraid that only more cursing would fall from his lips, Erik gave a curt nod of his head. His thoughts were already beginning to race as he considered this newest development. He didn't feel ready to step into the role of Michael Blythe – the non-existent, phantom composer. But neither would he allow Melodie to attend the gala alone with that predator stalking her.

He realized that Henry was continuing to drone on, though he was barely listening. "…known David all his life. He's not a bad young man, just a terribly misguided one. I don't think he would actually harm her but…"

Erik cut him off abruptly, at the end of his patience. Although they weren't related by blood, it was quite clear from whom Melodie inherited her naiveté. "Stop making excuses for him. You wouldn't have brought this up if you weren't concerned and from what I know of him, you're right to be worried. However, I give you my word that I'll find a way to watch over her."

With a wrinkled brow and tilt of the head, it was clear that Henry was confused. "I don't understand. How is that possible if you don't attend?"

As he answered that perfectly reasonable question, Erik knew his smile did not reach his eyes.

"I have my ways."

* * *

A/N: The last chapter was rather a difficult act to follow, so I hope this one doesn't disappoint. It's more of a transitional chapter into the next series of events.

To allegratree: I don't think I ever thanked you for those articles. I found them very interesting, so thanks!

As always, thank you to the wonder-beta, penkitten. To everyone who reviewed the last chapter, thank you so much for the wonderful comments! I'm greatly thrilled that many of you had as much of an emotional response in reading it, as I did in writing it.


	17. Ch 16: Gala Night Part 1

The next few weeks kept Melodie very busy and her excitement grew with each passing day that brought her closer to the symphony's premiere. On the evening that the work was officially declared complete, she and Erik indulged in a celebratory dinner, complete with a fine bottle of wine that he'd been saving and chocolate for dessert. Even Sascha had received a treat – a particularly large bone from the roast Erik had prepared.

With the finished orchestration in hand, Melodie met Henry in front of the newly constructed Skylon Theatre and together, they went in to speak with the managers. Henry had kept in contact with them on a regular basis but this was the first time she was introduced to the gentlemen – James Wallace and Craig Rosenberg. The commission for this piece was far greater than what she had received for _Celebration_; it barely managed to fit into her reticule. As per her request, they would allow her access to the rehearsals so she could make adjustments to the score if necessary. It took some convincing on her part to assure them that she was more than capable of this task on behalf of the composer. When they seemed rather skeptical of her claim, Henry rose to her defence and they finally relented.

As she knew they would, they inquired whether the elusive Mr. Blythe would attend on opening night. She regretfully informed them that he would not. Obviously disappointed, they urged her to do her best to change his mind, reminding her of the generous bonus that was at stake.

The remaining time was split between home and the theatre. Initially, she relegated herself to a corner and quietly took notes as the rehearsals progressed. It was a thrill to be present right from the start of the process and she found it all quite fascinating. The first time she approached the conductor with an alteration she wanted to try, he looked down his nose at her with undisguised disdain. However, having been warned by the managers that this was precisely why she was here, he didn't shoo her away. Later, when she pressed for his opinion, he grudgingly admitted that the change was for the better.

At home, she kept Erik informed of all that went on during those sessions. When she asked how he felt about her making these decisions on her own, he only stated that he trusted her judgment. Secretly pleased, she considered that to be high praise coming from him.

At long last, the much-anticipated day finally arrived. She found herself terribly restless and unable to concentrate on anything, much to Erik's amusement. Dinner was a half-hearted attempt to nibble on fruit and cheese. Although Erik pressed her to have some bread, the dryness snagged at her throat, almost making her choke. It rather annoyed her that she was a tightly wound bundle of nerves while he was so calm and collected. Of course, since he would not be attending tonight, he had nothing to be nervous about. She somehow knew, however, that even if he were accompanying her he would probably remain the picture of serenity.

Excusing herself, she pushed away from the table and rose to her feet. "I should start getting ready," she said.

There was a muted thunk as Erik put down his glass. "Be sure to take a look on your bed. I left something for you."

"What is it?"

"Something that may come in handy tonight."

The cryptic words swam round her head as she proceeded upstairs, filled with curiosity. Once in her chambers, she shut the door and with hands outstretched, gingerly inspected the surface of the bed. Almost immediately, her fingers connected with what felt like ripples of silk, cool to the touch. Funny, she was certain she hadn't lain out her dress in advance. Then again, she had been so distracted today she supposed it was possible. Gathering it more closely to her, she expelled a startled gasp. "Oh…my…" she breathed, as her eyes took in what she held.

It was a gown of the most beautiful shade of midnight blue she had ever seen. The deep, rich colour reminded her of clear, twilight skies. And like sparkling stars in their midst, she noticed something bejewelled that was attached to the neckline. Carefully removing it, she realized it was a crystal hairclip, pale blue in colour and charmingly shaped like a ribbon tied into a bow. As she touched one finger to the ends of the 'ribbon' hanging down, she discovered they had some movement, gently swinging to and fro.

Utterly flabbergasted, she stood unmoving for a long while before finally snapping out of her trance. Impatience to try on the dress made her rush about more quickly than usual. After all the necessary layers were in place, she at last slipped into her new gown. Standing straight, she skimmed her hands down her hips, noting with amazement that the garment fit perfectly. Wondering how exactly Erik had managed that feat, she gave her head a shake and decided she did not want to know.

Sitting before her dresser, she brushed her hair until it was free of all tangles. She then gathered up the sides of her hair and attached the clip, high on the back of her head. Remembering the little pot of lip wax that Trina Anniston had given her, she applied a discrete amount. As she pressed her lips together, she was ready to face her reflection. Her fingers sought out the handle of the small hand mirror from the top of the dresser. Once her face came into view, she could see there was no need to pinch her cheeks; they were already exuding a rosy glow on their own. She hated her freckles but there was nothing she could do about that. Her gaze moved lower, trying to take in the bodice, but her eyes couldn't seem to focus. Giving up, she set the mirror down and ran her palm along the edge of the neckline, feeling the delicate ruffling. It was modestly cut and unlike the yellow gown she had been planning to wear, it wasn't too tight around the chest. The sleeves on this dress were short and slightly off the shoulder, however, exposing more bare skin then she was accustomed to. She finally told herself she was being silly. This was an evening gown, after all, not a housedress.

With a final pat at her hair, she went downstairs, eager to thank the generous man behind this surprise. "Erik?" she called out.

He was not there. Entering the kitchen, her voice only echoed back to her, confirming that it was empty as well. Puzzled, she slowly walked back to check the time on the mantel clock.

"Mellie."

His deep, smooth voice came from the direction of the stairs and she turned, smiling. "Erik, I…I don't know what to say, except thank you. Thank you so much. It's so beautiful and the hairclip…I adore it. Do I look all right?"

During her awkward speech, he had closed the distance between them. "More than all right. You look exquisite," he murmured. "I knew this colour would be most becoming on you."

She flushed with pleasure at the compliment. "Turn around for me," he requested. When she obliged, he said, "Everything is perfect, except for the hairclip. It's already sliding out of place. Your hair is so damned silky, I wasn't sure if it would work. Let me try something."

Holding herself still, she felt a gentle tugging at the crown of her head as he made some adjustment. "There." He sounded satisfied. "Is that pulling at your hair?"

"No, it's fine." She pivoted to face him. "I wish you would reconsider, Erik. It saddens me that we won't be sharing this moment together. You deserve recognition for your work."

"As do you. Does it truly not bother you that the fictional Michael Blythe will receive all the credit?"

Her lips pursed slightly. "In all honesty, I suppose it bothers me just a bit. But as long as people appreciate the work itself, then it's enough satisfaction for me."

Several heartbeats of silence went by. "What are you thinking?" she asked.

"There is something I have to tell you about tonight. I've waited until now because there was no need to upset you in advance."

Already frowning, she said, "Go on."

"David Wentworth plans to be there tonight. And so do I."

She sucked in a breath, unsure which of those two statements surprised her more. "What? I don't understand. How do you know he'll be there?"

"Henry told me. He specifically asked that I watch over you, which I intend to do. I think the two of us have probably spent an equal amount of time at the theatre these last few weeks. I've learned the layout and made a few minor adjustments. I should be able to keep an eye on everything that's going on without being observed. I have a good view of all areas inside except the backstage hallways. Whatever you do, Mellie, do not let Wentworth lure you backstage alone."

The sudden grip of his hand on her bare shoulder startled her, almost making her jump. For emphasis, his face partially came into view, though it was blurred. "Is that clear?" he said.

Her head nodded in a jerky movement and his tone softened when he continued. "Don't worry. I won't allow him to hurt you again."

Though it didn't help her vision to squint, she found herself doing just that, staring at him. "You're wearing a different mask. It's black."

The barely discernible visage disappeared again, along with the warmth of his hand. "Yes. I don't wear it often, but it's less visible than the white one."

"So, you'll at least be able to hear the symphony."

"Yes."

Taking two steps, she reached out with her left hand until it connected with the glossy finish of his black dresscoat. Now standing only inches away, she had a direct view of his crisp white shirt. Idly laying her index finger over one of the buttons, she wished she could see him from head to foot; no doubt he cut a commanding but elegant figure.

Knowing that he had found a way to attend the performance of _Celebration_, she had a suspicion that he might do something similar tonight. But now the situation had become much more complicated and she was touched that he would go to such great lengths to protect her. The gown and hairclip alone had been such wonderful gifts, and now this…

Erik was, she realized, a man of thoughtful actions more than words. She wanted to find a way to make her heartfelt appreciation known.

Tilting her head back, she stood up on her toes and brought her right hand up to his face. He brought his head down lower until she could clearly see his questioning eyes. She pressed her lips against that smooth cheek, perhaps lingering a little longer than necessary. "Thank you…for everything," she whispered, breathing in his clean and spicy scent.

Before she completely lost her senses, she pulled away and hastily retreated upstairs to continue getting ready.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Jumping down from the saddle, Erik took hold of the rein and led his horse to one of the young stable boys employed by the theatre. As the lad took the offered bag of coins, he seemed impressed by the weight of it.

Erik had drawn the hood of his cloak over his head. Combined with the black mask and the darkening of evening, he knew his face was lost in obscure shadow. "I trust you'll take good care of him," he said.

Pocketing the generous wage, the boy nodded. "Yes, sir!"

Crossing through the stable, Erik walked with swift strides, his heels kicking up dust and straw in his wake. As long as he moved with purpose and didn't appear hesitant or lost, he was fairly confident that no one would question his presence. He had made certain to dress with care and it was rather pleasing to be clothed in formal attire once more.

The corridors backstage were buzzing with activity and literally crammed with people. A night of a normal performance would be busy but nowhere near this amount of commotion. Other than the members of the orchestra and theatre employees, there were extra people milling about tonight, including invited guests and patrons. Wading through the crowd with feigned patience, Erik kept one eye out for Melodie but did not see her.

Just as he had explained to her, he'd spent the last three weeks going over every inch of this building until he knew it as intimately as the Empire or the Paris opera house. He had roamed about at night, leaving after she had gone to bed and returning home before sunrise. The Skylon did not house any dormitories and the staff kept regular business hours, thus it was totally empty after the last worker left for the day.

Ducking around a corner, he quickly ascended a series of stairs that led up to the flies, high above the stage. The layout of the catwalks well suited his needs – they travelled around in a 'U' shape, from one wing of the stage, around the rear of the theatre, and down to the opposite wing. It was meant for ease of maintenance on these upper levels and he admired the architect for this clever design. Small, hidden doorways were situated at key points to allow access to certain areas.

During his nighttime visits, he created three windows, one on each side of the theatre and the third overlooking the front lobby. The panels could easily be removed and then put back in place. Unless someone was actively searching for them, they would never be found. He chose the precise location for the windows carefully; each one was situated behind gilded statues. His viewing area was large enough that he could see over and to either side of the obstruction. There was always a risk, of course, that someone might catch a glimpse of him, but these statues were high enough in the air that he wasn't concerned.

As he strode down the walkway, his cloak fluttering at his back, he had to wonder what he would do if he ran into someone up here – a worker making a last minute adjustment to a fixture, for instance. Finding that he had no ready answer, he simply hoped that no decision would have to be made. The path he walked was narrow, cramped and dark, but it didn't bother him in the least. In fact, he felt quite comfortable, as though he had returned home to familiar territory. Perhaps life in the idyllic countryside hadn't completely tamed the phantom that resided within his being.

He came to a sudden halt, realizing that he had reached the midpoint of his travels. On one side of the catwalk lay the rear section of the theatre and on the other, the grand hall of the lobby. Finding the hidden panel of his window, he pulled it open and took in the view.

There were a fair number of people milling about, their laughter and mingled conversation rising up to meet his ears. Everything looked sparkling and polished, from the marble floor and sweeping columns, to the rainbow hue of the women's gowns and jewels. His gaze roamed over the crowd, searching for a particular shade of blue. He finally found the one he was seeking, standing alone on the perimeter of the activity. With her cane clutched in her grip, she looked a little forlorn, as if not quite sure what to do. Other than her expression, she at least appeared refined and graceful in her newly acquired dress. There was no way he would have permitted her to make another appearance in that frilly, childish concoction that she'd worn for her last public reception. He congratulated himself once more on making a fine choice in this simple but sophisticated gown.

A middle-aged man, fairly rotund and balding, approached Melodie. She instantly grew animated, chattering away and smiling. After a few minutes, he walked away and Henry soon joined her side. Relaxing for the moment, Erik shuffled a bit to the right, glancing around to the other side of the hall. He knew it would be more difficult to pinpoint Wentworth in the sea of black trousers and dresscoats but nonetheless, his eyes flickered from one gentleman to the next. Giving up, he at last noticed that people seemed to be moving inwards, flowing towards the theatre entrance directly below him. Melodie and Henry were no longer in sight so they too must have entered. About to turn away, Erik caught sight of two men, just as they were coming into the hall – one of them was Wentworth.

Glaring at the handsomely cut figure, Erik replaced the panel and made his way to the next vantage point. Though it was unlikely his footsteps would echo loudly enough to be heard, he tread lightly out of pure habit. This time, he took his position directly above the box seats, off to the side and close to the stage. Melodie had her arm linked through Henry's and he led her down the carpeted aisle to the front row. They settled into the plush, red velvet seats and waited for the evening to begin.

Forcing the tension to ease from his muscles, Erik did the same, his attention now on the stage. The orchestra was already in place, mostly male members but a smattering of females. Clothed in stark black and white, they visually seemed to be a cohesive unit. To begin the programme, there was an array of the obligatory speeches from several people, including the two managers. Bored, Erik gave way to a yawn, aware that the past few weeks of little to no sleep were catching up to him.

When the first strains of music began at last, he snapped awake, forgetting his weariness. He recognized the overture to Mozart's 'The Abduction From The Seraglio'. Next, a woman in a painfully bright pink gown with ridiculous feathers in her hair walked centre stage to sing two arias. Her voice was average, at best – better than Carlotta's overblown screeching, but nowhere near the bell-like purity of Christine's divine tone.

The showcase piece saved for the finale, of course, was the debut of Michael Blythe's 'Symphony No. 1 in E minor'. He listened with a fairly critical ear to start, noting some of the adjustments that he presumed Melodie had made and finding most of them agreeable. After the first movement had ended, he realized that he was missing out on the essence of the performance itself by picking it apart. Why not simply enjoy it for what it was, flaws and all? With that conscious decision made, he stopped thinking and let the music wash over him freely.

As the orchestra swelled to a dramatic conclusion, filling the theatre with its glorious sound, he couldn't help the slow smile of satisfaction that spread across his face. There was no doubt that this piece was amongst his finest accomplishments – and he had Melodie to thank for it.

The audience failed to react immediately, a strange hush falling over them for several seconds. Then a roar of applause rang out, the sound thunderous in its approval. A hearty chorus of 'bravos' were thrown in for good measure and in a rippling wave, everyone rose to their feet for a standing ovation.

After the conductor made his bows, the managers, Wallace and Rosenberg, took to the stage. Wallace was the portly man that Erik had seen speaking to Melodie earlier, while Rosenberg was younger and more dashing. Both men raised their arms, in a silent request that they be heard.

Smiling broadly, Rosenberg spoke. "Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. That was indeed, a most remarkable performance and we are very proud to have debuted this symphony in our new theatre. Unfortunately, the composer, Mr. Michael Blythe, was unable to attend tonight. However, we are pleased to have his lovely assistant here on his behalf, who is a splendid musician in her own right. Please help me in welcoming her to the stage. Melodie, if you would kindly join us…"

Clapping began anew and Erik watched as Melodie turned to Henry. Even as she began to shake her head, he was encouraging her to her feet and taking hold of her elbow. He led her to the foot of the stairs tucked away in the side corner, ascending to the stage. Wallace met her at the top step and took her arm, guiding her to the centre.

At first, she seemed frozen in place, still gripping her cane. But as the polite applause grew in volume, even encompassing a few cheers, she broke into a beguiling smile and dropped a curtsey. Lifting his arms once more, Rosenberg continued his closing speech. "Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, thank you. And now the night continues in the front hall with more music and celebration. Please enjoy yourselves and thank you once again for joining us tonight."

Although most of the guests started to head back to the hall for the party, some mingled in their seats and along the aisles. Erik held his position, continuing to observe as his 'assistant' made the rounds on stage, having a word with the managers, the conductor, and some of the musicians. He swept his gaze over the people remaining behind but couldn't spot Wentworth.

At last, Melodie descended from the stage, spoke briefly to Henry, and then started heading towards the reception area. Reacting quickly, Erik closed off his view with the panel and retraced his steps along the catwalk. Opening up the middle view port once more, he looked down upon the party in progress. He rather hoped that Melodie would not be lingering for too long a period. Now that the actual performance was over, he wasn't eager to remain standing here all night.

Having to relocate her again, he found it more difficult this time with a denser press of bodies. It took several minutes before he finally saw her, making her way towards the far wall. Only then did it dawn on him that she wasn't fond of crowds. Perhaps the dislike stemmed from a combination of her fear of enclosed spaces and poor vision. She conversed with a few people who approached her but did not budge from her spot. Time passed and Erik fidgeted, starting to grow restless. Even the orchestra members had joined the party now.

When a vaguely familiar looking young man stopped to chat with her, Erik frowned, staring at him. Then, he literally couldn't believe his eyes when she accepted his arm and walked away with him, disappearing through a side door.

_What the hell?_

Frantically searching his memory, knowing that he had seen that face before, the answer came to him at last with an accompanying chill.

The man was here with Wentworth. They had come in together.

"_Merde!_"

Cursing out loud, Erik fumbled with the panel, almost dropping it in his haste. He then ran down the narrow walkway, uncaring of the heavier fall of his footsteps, until he reached the staircase. Leaping down the steep flights, he practically flew through the air.

As much as he longed to throttle Wentworth for this particularly devious plan, he also wanted to shake Melodie for being so foolishly trusting. Had he not made it abundantly clear that she was not to be lured to the backstage hallways?

Erik kept the anger close to his heart to avoid acknowledging that other emotion that was extending its spidery tendrils.

Fear.

* * *

A/N: I know the previous chapter wasn't the greatest (I do know what you mean, allegratree)...hopefully this one is better. Hopefully.

Thanks to my lightning-fast beta, penkitten. And thank you to all who continue to review. It means the world to me!


	18. Ch 17: Gala Night Part 2

Gulping at his drink as he slowly ambled along, David simultaneously surveyed the crowd around him. There was no sign of her. He knew that he should have tracked her movements after she'd taken her bows onstage, but the lure of drinks in the grand hall had been too delicious to resist. Having been seated near the back of the theatre, he'd been the first one to sample the complimentary liquor after the performance. Still, it was utterly maddening that he hadn't yet been able to find her. How could one vulnerable little blind woman have escaped so easily?

"I don't see her on that side either."

David turned to face his friend, Ramsey Farr, whom issued the report with a bored tone. "Really, David, is she worth all this trouble? Granted, she's pretty enough, I suppose, but there are far greater beauties here." He jutted his chin outward, having spied something interesting. "Like that curvy blonde bird over there. I've seen her trying to catch your eye more than once tonight."

Following Ramsey's sightline, David regarded the woman who was indeed, a ravishing creature – creamy, flawless skin, golden ringlets of hair and an enchanting figure encased in red satin. As he met her gaze, she smiled coyly at him and he inclined his head in acknowledgment. Then he turned his back on her, bringing the glass of champagne to his lips. "Later, perhaps," he murmured, savouring the cool liquid. "This is twice now that I've suffered through a mind numbing concert for her and I won't let it be for naught. I'm not leaving until I've had the satisfaction of speaking with her."

Ramsey's dark eyes danced with amusement, his moustache twitching. "At least I enjoyed the concert. The symphony was quite good. Your reason for being here, however, is rather sad, my friend."

David glared at him. "If I want your opinion, I'll ask for it," he snapped. "Did you see her up on that stage, soaking in all that glory? How could this have happened? She's a servant girl, an orphan, who should be relegated to a meaningless life of obscurity. Yet she's up there, having the time of her life, while I'm down here and hating every minute of mine." Becoming aware that his jealousy was all too apparent, he bit his tongue and stemmed the bitter flow of words. As he downed the remaining champagne in his glass, he grimaced. His spite had seemingly soured the smoothness of the drink, leaving a rancid aftertaste.

Quirking his eyebrows, Ramsey chortled. "Well, well, now the truth emerges. Here I thought you simply viewed her as a conquest, since she's rejected your advances. But you're actually jealous of her."

"So what?" David muttered, fingering his empty glass and already thirsty for another. "I'm jealous of you too. You're a barrister. Important. You love your work."

"Most of the time, yes, but sometimes I hate it too. That's life. I'm sorry to sound like your father, but you really need to find some direction. Why not just give in and work at his company? It might not be as terrible as you think."

Rolling his eyes, David said, "Thread and yarn. That's what he produces. Could anything possibly be less interesting than that?"

"He's made his fortune from it. I wouldn't dismiss it so easily."

This conversation had grown tiresome very quickly. "He's been threatening to disown me for years now. If he really meant it, he would have done it by now. I'll find direction but it's not happening tonight, so stop acting like my father and start acting like a friend."

"Very well." Ramsey exhaled a deliberate sigh. "It's my duty, then, to point out the fact that she's right over there."

Swivelling to once again follow the other man's gaze, David squinted, his eyes flickering from one figure to the next. "Where?"

"There, almost hidden behind that pillar. Move a bit to the right and you'll see her."

Taking Ramsey's suggestion, David saw her at last, standing alone with her back to the wall. Not bothering to conceal his smile, he took a step forward and then stopped. Past experience enlightened him to the fact that she wouldn't talk to him. Having her escape from him again was not an option so he somehow had to entice her away from this crowd. He required a more private location for their conversation.

"Ramsey, I believe I have a plan."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Melodie had lost track of how many people had shaken her hand, patted her shoulder, and offered their congratulations. Although the magical glow of the evening seemed to be gradually wearing off, she held on to its warm sheen for as long as possible. It wrapped around her like a soothing blanket, helping to ward off the jittery anxiety she felt in the midst of this cloying press of bodies.

The orchestra had been simply magnificent. She had heard their progress all throughout the rehearsal period and knew how talented they were. As good as they had sounded then, with a live audience in front of them tonight, they had outdone themselves. Even the maestro, who was a difficult man to satisfy, had seemed especially proud of the performance.

Curious as to where exactly Erik had situated himself, she wondered how he had reacted to hearing the symphony for the first time, with the full richness of all the instruments. She hoped he'd found it pleasing. Perhaps he was watching her even at this moment. The thought was strangely disturbing and comforting at the same time.

"Excuse me, Melodie?"

Turning her attention to the smooth, unfamiliar voice, she said, "Yes?"

"My name is Ramsey. I work here at the theatre. Though we haven't been formally introduced, I've seen you about. Mr. Wallace wanted to speak to you privately about something and asked that I find you. Would you mind accompanying me?"

"Oh. Certainly."

Stepping forth, her cane at the ready, she felt a hand on her arm. "Perhaps you would allow me, Madame? It would be my pleasure."

"All right."

She accepted the proffered arm and he guided her through a doorway. As they walked, he chatted amiably. "I must tell you how much I enjoyed the symphony. There was both drama and beauty, and some passages sounded remarkably exotic."

He continued on and she listened intently, interested in his opinion. Thus distracted, she realized they were in the backstage corridors but had lost her sense of direction. "Haven't we passed Mr. Wallace's office?" she asked.

"Yes, but there is some other meeting in there right now. He asked that you wait for him in one of the spare rooms a little further down. Ah, here we are. Just a moment and I'll turn up the lamp."

Though uneasy in the darkness, she relaxed a little as the glow of the gas lamp brightened the haze of her vision just enough for her comfort level. Ramsey was already edging out of the room. "Wait here, please, and I'll let Mr. Wallace know that you're here. He was most anxious to speak with you so it shouldn't be long."

Left alone, she heard his footsteps fade down the hallway. Her thumb flicked at the top edge of her cane in a repetitive motion. Even with sufficient light, she remained slightly on edge and for whatever reason, began to feel that something wasn't right. When she remembered Erik's warning to not enter the backstage areas alone, her uneasiness deepened.

Convinced that lingering any longer wasn't wise, she hurried forward. Before she could get very far, a different set of footsteps fast approaching made her hesitate. "Mr. Wallace?" she called out.

In reply, she heard the door being shut, accompanied by a voice that made her scalp prickle.

"Hello, Melodie."

Those innocuous two words were filled with mocking laughter and a ring of triumph. Anger, shock, and fear made her voice brittle when she finally spoke. "David, what an unpleasant surprise. Was this elaborate ruse really necessary?"

"You wouldn't have spoken to me otherwise."

"That's true. So, now that your mission is accomplished, what do you want?"

Aware that he had ventured much closer to her, she fought the urge to back away or run for the door. She had no intention of revealing the fact that he intimidated her.

"Just a casual conversation. Are you enjoying the party? Seeing you here reminded me of when we were children, and we used to hide behind those curtains to watch the dancing. Remember?"

Nodding, her guard dropped just a fraction as she recalled the fond memory. "I remember," she said softly. Parties at the Wentworth home had been more frequent when they were children and their presence had been strictly forbidden. David had found a hiding place in a back corner and peeking between the green and gold velvet curtains, they had spied on the elegant proceedings. She had been enamoured with the elegant attire of the guests and longed for the day when she would be dressed in a fancy gown. David had amused himself by poking fun at people and she had to admit, most of his observations had made her giggle.

"You see?" he said, his voice coaxing. "Not everything that involves me is unpleasant. You've come a long way since childhood. Who would have imagined that years later, you would be the shining star on stage with everyone on their feet applauding you?"

"They were applauding the symphony and Mr. Blythe, not me. Is there a point to all this?" Leaving the memories behind, she was firmly back in the present and wary once more.

"I find this arrangement with Blythe very curious. How exactly do you assist him?"

"This is really none of your affair but you already know my love of music and that I have the theoretical ability to write as well. Mr. Blythe is the composer and I simply assist him with some of the more minor details." She couldn't fathom why David was pestering her about this. Her answer was deliberately vague and naturally, it was too much to hope that it would satisfy him.

"Such as?" he inquired.

Annoyed, she decided to end this now. "You've already wasted enough of my time. Henry is probably looking for me and I'm not obligated to answer to you. Goodbye, David."

Making as wide a berth as possible so as not to brush past him, she found her arm pinched in a hurtful grasp. "Don't walk away from me." His tone shifted from charming to cold in a mere blink.

Despite the sudden pounding of her heart, she was able to keep her voice even. "I'm not a servant in your household any longer. I won't take orders from you. Let go of me."

Instead of being released, she was yanked towards him, colliding with the solidness of his body. Trying to squirm away, she winced when he entangled a fist within the length of her hair, forcing her head back. His sneering face came into view, as he said, "I know you're hiding something. Now, be a good girl and tell me what it is. Or perhaps I should just kiss it out of you?"

Just the thought of those lips on hers again made her nauseous. It seemed to have escaped his notice that her right hand – the one still clutching her cane – was free. Her first impulse was to jab him in the eye but as much as she despised David, she couldn't bring herself to possibly blind him. Since his gaze had locked on her mouth, she seized the opportunity. Bringing the makeshift weapon up with as much force as she could muster, she jammed the end of it against his throat.

He made a strangled gurgling sound, his face dropping from view. Freed of his grip, she let go of the cane and whirled around, running for the door with arms outstretched. Her palms slapped against wood but she lost precious seconds as her hands flailed about, searching for the handle. When her fingers finally closed around it, she almost cried out with relief. Throwing open the door, she could literally taste freedom as she took one step into the corridor.

Unfortunately, it was short lived. She couldn't contain the squeak of dismay as she was jerked back into the room. The door was slammed shut so quickly, it almost snagged her hair. Hands clenched around her shoulders and she was knocked backwards against the wall. Feeling the clip in her hair digging painfully into her scalp, she clenched her teeth.

"We've been playing this game for far too long," David snarled, "and I'm rather tired of being the injured party. You won't get the better of me this time."

As his face started to swim into focus again, she opened her mouth to scream.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

It was absolutely deserted backstage, as Erik suspected it would be. Everyone had either joined the party or gone home. He had already searched half of the maze of hallways to no avail and each passing minute heightened his worry.

About to turn the corner, he heard a sound and spun around. Gazing down the corridor, he glimpsed the hem of a blue dress swishing outwards before vanishing again. He also caught what sounded like a faint cry and the definitive sound of a door being closed.

Certain that he had located her, he broke into a run and stopped short, faced with a series of doors to choose from. Lowering his eyes, he found one that had a horizontal shaft of light beaming from the space below the bottom edge. The lamp was on in this room.

Although prepared to kick the door down, he was yet clear headed enough to try the handle first. It turned easily and he flung himself inside. The sight that greeted him was what he had been expecting, flooding him with instantaneous, gut-wrenching fury. He couldn't bring himself to look at her. His focus was on David and his vision seemed to have tunnelled to that one hated face, swirling within a blood-red mist.

The man recoiled away in shock but it was too late for him. Erik grabbed him by the shoulders and half dragged, half lifted him off his feet, propelling him through the doorway and slamming him against the opposite wall, face first. The crunch of flesh and bone meeting wood and the resounding yelp of pain were like music to his ears. Hauling him around, one of his hands wrapped around David's throat; the other flattened against his chest. Erik shoved him backwards into the wall, pinning him there and inspecting him like an insect.

Blood trickled from the man's nose and his face was beginning to flush red from a lack of air. Blue eyes reflecting confusion and fright had fluttered open, staring at him. "Who…are…you?" he managed to gasp.

Erik tightened his grip. "Since you strut around like Don Giovanni, preying on innocent women, I'm the Commendatore. And I'm sending you straight to hell," he rasped. His cold smile sent David into a paroxysm of struggling against the vice-like grip on his throat.

"What the devil is going on here?"

Resenting the intrusion, Erik snapped his head around. "This is none of your…" The heated words died on his lips as he recognized Rosenberg, the younger manager.

"Unhand him at once, sir!" Rosenberg barked, his tone full of authority and misplaced outrage.

The tick beneath his right eye made Erik blink. Before letting David go, he issued a final, vicious squeeze on the windpipe and then drew back his hands. As he stepped aside, David collapsed in a heap on the ground, wheezing, "He…tried to…kill me."

Now that the victim had been released, Rosenberg seemed unsure of what to do next. "Shall I summon the authorities?"

With one hand braced along the wall, David pulled himself up, swaying slightly and looking haggard; his nose continued to drip with blood, wisps of hair fell across his eyes, and despite tugging at the lapels of his jacket, the messy creases and wrinkles remained. "No, no," he muttered, sounding unnaturally husky. "I just need to clean myself up. I'm fine."

Erik couldn't allow the man to just slink away. His eyes following David's every move, he took a step forward but found his path blocked by Rosenberg. "I'll ask you to stay put, sir. I think you've done enough…Melodie, there you are. I've been looking for…I say, are you all right?"

Turning, Erik saw her framed in the doorway, pale and dishevelled. Now that he had full view of her, a maelstrom of emotions swept through him with staggering speed – relief, concern, tenderness and anger.

"Mr. Rosenberg? Yes, I'm all right."

As the manager walked away from Erik to speak to her, he remembered David and whipped his head around, only to find the corridor deserted. Furious, he mentally uttered a few choice curses. Torn between chasing after him and tending to Melodie, he stood rooted to the spot.

"…then I must have misunderstood," Rosenberg was saying, sounding sheepish. "Sir, my apologies. I didn't realize you were coming to Melodie's aid."

Erik said, nothing, simply regarding the man with an icy gaze. Rosenberg held out his hand. "Craig Rosenberg. I'm one of the managers of the Skylon. And you are?"

Though he may have imagined it, Erik was fairly certain that Melodie just drew in a sharp intake of breath. As if his mouth belonged to someone else, he found himself saying, "Michael Blythe."

He grasped the extended hand but Rosenberg was so astonished, the appendage simply lay there like a limp fish. His expression bordered on comical, with eyes rounded and jaw unhinged. At last, Erik's hand was pumped up and down enthusiastically, as Rosenberg stammered, "My God, my _God_, of course. The mask. Those rumours. Mr. Blythe, truly, it's an honour. Thank you so much for coming."

"Could I trouble you for my hand back?" Erik said dryly, as it continued to be shaken.

It was dropped immediately. "Of course, terribly sorry. I'm just so excited that you're here. You will join the party, won't you?"

He honestly hadn't thought that far ahead. "I don't know," he replied shortly. "Just give me a minute."

Reaching out to Melodie with fingers splayed on the small of her back, he guided her back into the room. He left the door open but stepped behind it, giving them some privacy. "Are you truly all right? Did he hurt you?" he asked, keeping his voice low.

She grimaced, her mouth flattening. "When I was about to scream, he knocked my head back against the wall. I think it stunned me a little. That's why it took me a while to come out of the room. Is he…gone?"

He didn't bother hiding the irritation in his voice. "Yes, he slipped away."

Closing her eyes briefly, she said, "Could you please remove my hairclip? It's become painful."

Moving around her, he frowned at the sight of her mussed, tangled hair. The thought of that bastard's hands within her hair and on her skin made him sick with renewed rage. Trying to control the acute tremors that ran through him, his fingers shaking, he managed to detach the clip. Parting the dark strands, he found a red welt on her scalp. "The edge of the clip must have dug into your skin," he said. "It's a shallow cut."

"Is it broken?" she asked, sounding anxious.

He wasn't sure what she was referring to. "The skin?"

"No, the hairclip."

Her obvious concern over the newly acquired gift almost made him smile. "No, it's fine."

"Good. Please keep it safe for me and put it in your pocket, Er…um, Mr. Blythe."

Although much was left unspoken between them, he was aware of Rosenberg still waiting outside. Slipping the jewelled ribbon into his breast pocket, Erik retrieved Melodie's cane from the floor and they emerged into the hallway. He considered rejecting the eager manager's suggestion and exiting through the back of the theatre, but he'd already claimed Blythe's identity. Why not carry the charade to its fullest?

Once inside the grand hall, where the party was still going strong, Rosenberg leapt onto the small stage that was set up for the string quartet. Interrupting the music, he called out for attention and gradually, as people became aware of him, the conversations quieted.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I have a special announcement to make. Tonight, we heard Michael Blythe's symphony and from speaking with many of you, I know we are all very impressed. No doubt that it will be performed and equally enjoyed a century down the road. I'm pleased to inform you that Mr. Blythe has been able to join us after all. He's a very elusive man and I daresay he probably won't stay for long. But there he is, off to my left, the gentleman in the black mask. Let us show him our appreciation of his work."

Erik felt he was ensnared in the oddest dream as he stood there, a surging tide of applause rolling over him like an ocean wave. He didn't care for the pointed stares and flurried whispers of those closest to him, so he blocked them out. For this one fleeting moment, he permitted himself to revel in the applause and the approval. Making a deep, sweeping bow, he turned to Melodie. Her lips were slightly curled upwards but her eyes seemed unfocused, as though her mind was anywhere but here. "Ready to go home?" he asked under his breath. In answer, she simply nodded, as if too weary to speak. "Then let's go."

Since they were already on the edge of the crowd, it wasn't too difficult to start heading towards the front doors. Several people shook his hand as he went by and although it was obvious they wanted to converse with him, he kept moving forward.

Henry's familiar face stepped forth from the anonymous partygoers. "Well, Mr. Blythe, it looks like you've gone public."

Coming to a halt, Erik said, "I suppose I have. It's good to see you, Henry."

"Thank you. Likewise. Mellie, where have you been? I was getting worried so I asked Mr. Rosenberg to find you."

When she replied, she seemed entirely too cheery. "Oh, you know how I hate crowded places. I just wanted to be alone for a little while. I'm sorry to have worried you."

Looking unconvinced, Henry's gaze slid to Erik's. "Is that true?"

"Excuse me, but I'm standing right here," she snapped, sounding incensed. "You asked me a question and I answered it. Don't ask for verification from someone else. Goodnight, Henry." Although she pulled on Erik's arm, he held his position. "Let's go, Er…Mr. Blythe!"

"Mellie…" he started to say.

"Fine, I'll see my own way out."

Her abrupt, fiery display of temper baffled him. It was a side of her he'd never witnessed before. Granted, this hadn't exactly been a typical evening. He addressed the older man who appeared equally perturbed.

"Sorry, Henry. Could you order her carriage? We'll wait below."

Henry nodded, fixing Erik with a look that spoke more than he could say. "Take care of her."

Erik inclined his head. "Always."

He strode after the retreating figure, amazed that she had moved so far ahead in such a short time. Rather bemused, he watched as her cane swung back and forth with uncommon haste. Most people saw her drawing near and shifted out of her way but those who didn't found their ankles clipped. Judging by their pained expressions, it wasn't a gentle tap. Sweeping past them with an insincere sounding 'sorry', she kept marching along.

Past the lobby, she located the handrail and glided down the stairs. He decided to try again. "Mellie, would you slow down?" His attempt to take her arm was thwarted as she shook off his hand.

"I'm perfectly fine."

Though she struggled a little with the large, heavy main door, she pushed it open and he followed. He found himself doubtful about how well she could maneuver the next flight of steps that led down to the street. There was no handrail here, just a steep descent of solid, unforgiving grey stone. Rather gingerly, she used her cane to find the edge of the top step. With an awkward shuffling of her feet, she managed three steps before tripping, most likely on the hem of her dress.

As she teetered there precariously, Erik had a nightmarish vision of her tumbling her way down to the cobblestone street, lying in a broken pile of bones. He was at her side in an instant, even as she regained her balance. "Good God, woman, are you determined to break your neck?" he hissed, grabbing hold of her upper arm.

"I told you I'm fine. I can do this on my own," she insisted.

"Either you allow me to assist you or I swear I will throw you over my shoulder and carry you down. The choice is yours."

"You wouldn't dare."

"Wouldn't I? Do not test me, Mellie."

Pursing her lips, she averted her head and transferred the cane to her left hand. With silent acceptance, forced as it might be, they traversed down to street level together. The skies were overcast and despite the glow of the lamps, it was dark and shadowed. A light, cool breeze rifled Melodie's hair. "Are you cold?" he asked. "You could wear my cloak."

"No. But thank you," she added as an afterthought.

"Why did you lie to Henry?" he asked.

"I don't see the point in worrying him."

"He's worried anyway, and with good reason. Why on earth would you permit a strange man to lure you away?"

"He told me that he worked here, that Mr. Wallace wanted to talk to me."

Erik nodded to himself, having to admit that Wentworth's plan had been clever. "And of course you believed him. You have always been too trusting."

Melodie gaped at him in disbelief. "Are you saying this is somehow my fault?"

"Perhaps not entirely but…"

Clearly fuming, she cut him off. "You are unbelievable! Giving me orders, thinking you know what's best for me, an appalling temper. You're just as bad as _he_ is!"

Erik flinched, as if he'd just been struck in the face. For Melodie to compare him with Wentworth was the worst possible insult he could fathom. The sound of creaky wheels and clip clop of hooves signalled the carriage's approach from behind the theatre. "Your carriage is here," he said coldly.

After coming to a full halt, the driver jumped down, opening the side door. As Melodie turned to get in, she paused, as if about to say something. Apparently changing her mind, she clambered inside without uttering another word.

"Take her home, Quinn," Erik said, sounding as tired as he felt.

"Yes, sir." The driver tipped his hat before scrambling onto the high seat. With a flick of the reins, they were on their way.

As Erik watched the carriage recede from sight, he fingered the crystal pin tucked into his pocket, his expression unreadable. Turning at last, he headed for the stable.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Hidden behind one of the enormous pillars just outside the theatre doors, David observed the scene unfolding before him with keen interest. While he would have heartily enjoyed booting both of them down the stairs, he instead simply watched as the man and woman continued their discussion on the street.

His nose had finally stopped bleeding, but not before a few crimson drops had ruined his favourite shirt, not to mention soaking his handkerchief. He didn't take well to being humiliated.

The door nearest him swung open a few inches and Ramsey poked his head out. Waving the man over, his friend took cover beside him.

"Lover's quarrel?" Ramsey asked jokingly, his voice low.

"Interesting choice of words," David mused. "Do you think it's possible?"

"Anything is possible."

Although the couple were clearly arguing, he could only make out snippets of what they were saying. Before long, the carriage arrived and Melodie got in alone. The masked man turned away and disappeared behind the theatre.

"What do you think is behind that mask?" David asked. He had heard the manager's speech about the composer, but no mention had been made about why the mask was worn. Perhaps it was a means of generating publicity through an aura of mystery.

Ramsey looked thoughtful. "Funny you should ask. I could be wrong, but I am almost certain I've seen him before."

"Oh? Go on."

"Did you ever hear about the disaster at the Paris opera house? The Opera Populaire?"

As David shook his head, Ramsey went on. "It happened…oh, about two years ago. I was there…"

With rapt fascination, David listened as his friend's tale unfolded. It began with the opening of a terribly discordant and sensual opera, followed by the unmasking of a monstrous, hideously deformed man. The grand finale was a raging fire that roared through the theatre, gutting it completely.

David leaned against the pillar, the stone cooling his back. "And you think these two men are one and the same?"

Ramsey shrugged. "There's no way of knowing for certain unless the mask is removed. That will be your answer." He shuddered slightly. "That face…it's like looking at the devil himself."

Even in the darkness, David imagined his eyes were gleaming. "Michael Blythe," he murmured out loud. "Man or devil? I'll make it my duty to find out."

* * *

A/N: I know I've been updating on a weekly basis but just to warn my readers, the updates may start to come slower in the next few months. Real life does take precedence and unfortunately, writing fanfiction does not pay the bills. I'll thank you in advance for your patience and understanding.

To everyone: Thank you SO much for your reviews! I know I'm starting to sound repetitive, but I truly am thrilled by your responses, and especially the fact that readership seems to have grown in the past few chapters. Thanks for coming on board and letting me know you're reading!

To allegratree: Considering you wrote your review around 1:30 a.m., it's more coherent than anything I could write at that time. You asked some specific questions, so here we go. Yes, the Skylon theatre is fictional. When Erik is roaming about the theatre on the catwalks, he is inside. His cloak is fluttering because he's walking very fast. He created the "windows" or removable panels so he could see down into certain sections of the theatre. I tried to explain it as best I could, but it may not be absolutely clear. I acknowledge what you're saying about Erik cooking. It would be easier to have Melodie doing the cooking but earlier in the story, I stated that her presence wasn't appreciated in the kitchen at the Wentworths so essentially, she never learned how. That leaves Erik to cook (which I only mention him doing when Henry comes over for dinner or it's some other special dinner) or I suppose they can just eat bread and cheese everyday. I haven't done much research on food in this time period. If there is no cooking involved, what else can you eat, or what kinds of things could you go into town and buy? Anyone have suggestions? As for him dressing up, he's going to the theatre so I see no problem with that. I think I've only mentioned his clothing two other times…he had a cloak on when he went to the Grayson's to see "Celebration" being performed, and once at home I had him wearing black pants and a white ruffled shirt. I'm going by the film version with that visual, and couldn't help fitting it in somewhere ;-) Admittedly, that might be too fancy for just being at home.

This has been edited to add, credit goes to allegratree for inspiring the 'Don Giovanni' reference. Many thanks!


	19. Ch 18: Touch Me, Trust Me

As the carriage rolled along, Melanie slumped lower in the seat. Her emotions were so jumbled, she didn't know what she felt anymore. This evening should have been wonderful. It _had_ been wonderful, until David had ruined everything.

But she ruefully had to admit that the sour note upon which she'd parted from Erik had been her own doing. Just thinking about the last few words she'd lashed out at him made her wince. He hadn't deserved that, not when he'd gone to such great lengths to try to protect her. She hadn't even thanked him for leaping to her defence when David had her cornered.

Although the ride home seemed long, it was uneventful. Beyond the rhythmic sounds of the carriage's movements, the earth was hushed and still. Usually she would have nodded off but tonight, despite her weariness, she couldn't sleep a wink; her nerves were much too taut. She hadn't done anything to strain her eyes today but for some odd reason, they felt grainy and irritated. Though she knew better than to rub at them, she couldn't seem to help it. No doubt they were red and swollen by now.

Home at last, Quinn took her hand and helped her down from the cab. Dipping into her reticule, she gave him a generous tip. He was a good natured, older man who had regularly been taking her to and from the theatre these past few weeks.

"Did you enjoy the evening, miss?" he asked.

"Yes, it was lovely." Somehow, she even managed a wan smile. "Goodnight, Quinn."

Entering the house, she was greeted by Sascha, a bundle of warm and welcoming fur. She knelt down, uncaring of her silky dress gathering grime from the floor or stray white and black dog hairs. The animal chuffed with contentment as she received a scratch behind the ears and the promise of a belly rub.

Winding her way around the room in the darkness, Melodie headed upstairs. In her chambers, she disrobed, almost saddened to slip out of the beautiful dress. After carefully hanging it in the wardrobe, she let her fingers trail lightly down the material before shutting it away. Stripping off the rest of her layers, she breathed easier when the corset was removed. Comfortable once more in her shift and dressing gown, she ran a brush through her hair. Not thinking, she hissed with pain when the bristles found the cut on the back of her head. As she stood there, feet frozen to the floor, she could feel David's hands entwining through her hair, snaking across her shoulders, his breath hot on her face.

Shuddering with revulsion, she flung the brush across the room, hearing it rattle and skid along the wooden floorboards. She hated feeling afraid. She hated feeling helpless. And damn him for making her feel this way. It wasn't cold but she crossed her arms, as if warding off a chill.

_Where was Erik? He should have been home by now._

Sitting down on the edge of the bed, she took deep breaths until she was relatively calm again. She braided her hair as she usually did before bedtime but did not bother to search for the hairbrush.

Venturing downstairs, she approached the mantel to view the clock. It was almost one a.m. Surely he wouldn't have stopped somewhere along the way. Biting her lip, she fretted that perhaps he had decided not to come home at all. Even though she couldn't view his reaction when she'd hurled those last words at him in anger, she knew he must have been hurt.

Curling up on the couch, she soon had company in the form of Sascha. As if intuitive enough to sense her mood, the dog issued a sympathetic whine and licked her face. The unexpected wetness against Melodie's cheek made her chuckle lightly and as Sascha sank down beside her, she patted the silky head.

All she could do was wait.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

There were several possible routes home and tonight, rather than taking the most direct one, Erik chose the most roundabout path. It gave him a chance to cool his head, as well as an opportunity to think. Upon leaving the theatre, barrelling down the near-empty streets atop the stallion's back, his thoughts raced wildly. His fury had been scattered in all directions, encompassing Wentworth and his companion, Rosenberg, Melodie, and even himself. Despite his best intentions, she had still been hurt and Wentworth had received only a minor thrashing – far less than what he deserved.

_How dare Mellie lump me in the same category as that snivelling salaud._

The consuming anger carried him recklessly towards the outskirts of London. At one point, he rounded a corner and narrowly missed trampling a man who screamed with fright. Only then did Erik slow the horse, his calmness gradually returning as they rode at a more reasonable pace. When he reached the peaceful darkness of the country roads, his irritated nerves were soothed even further. The blanket of night served its usual comforting purpose. By the time he arrived home and dismounted in front of the gate, his emotions were in check and under control.

After ensuring the horse was settled in for the night, he let himself in the front door. All was quiet and he lit a candle, illuminating a wavering flame of light. With her tail wagging, Sascha ambled towards him for a brief few strokes on the head, then retreated to her corner to resume sleeping.

Assuming Melodie had gone to bed long before, he would have passed by her had she not expelled a whispered sigh. He held the candle outward and saw her stretched out on the couch, nestled on her side. The thin, ruffled dressing gown clung to her body and within the dim flicker of candlelight, she seemed to cast an ethereal glow. One hand was tucked under her chin, the fingers curled into a loose fist.

An unexpected surge of tenderness rose within him, rather surprising him. It seemed, where she was concerned, he couldn't remain angry for long. Setting down the candle, he removed his cloak and covered her with it. The impromptu blanket was ridiculously large on her, enveloping her altogether. Though he hadn't made a sound, she shifted, almost burying deeper beneath the cloak before her eyes slowly opened. "Erik?" she murmured.

"I didn't mean to wake you," he said.

Rubbing at eyes still heavy with sleep, she sat up, blinking. "I was waiting for you. I was afraid that…that maybe you wouldn't come home. I'm so sorry."

Although he found that particular fear ironic, he dismissed her words quickly. "It doesn't matter."

"It _does_ matter. Please, would you sit down?"

Hesitating, almost overcome by his own fatigue that seemed to have doubled since walking in the door, he nonetheless granted her request. They angled towards each other and Erik was eerily reminded of the night he had made his confessions to her, revealing the secrets of his past. Melodie appeared equally tired and distressed, but determined to continue. "I don't think you're anything like David. I'm sorry I said such a thing. I was just so frustrated and angry about everything that happened. You were so wonderful and I didn't even thank you for finding me when you did." A tremor seemed to run through her, making her shiver. Her voice was barely audible when she next spoke. "I hate admitting this; it makes me feel like such a weak, helpless female. But I was really frightened."

Despite the low light, he could see the welling tears in her eyes. He said nothing, reaching out to cup her cheek with the palm of his hand. Leaning into it, she closed her eyes, then scooted forward and embraced him, burying her face into his chest. The feel of her feminine curves moulded so closely against him caused an old, familiar hunger to stir. If he had any sense, he would push her away now. Instead, his arms wound around her, holding her tight.

Straining upwards, she nuzzled at the crook of his neck. "Erik, please…kiss me," she breathed.

Eyes that he hadn't known had closed flew open. "What?" he croaked.

"I don't want this night to end remembering his hands, his lips. I want you. Please."

Her voice held a note of pleading, her gaze beseeching. Drawn by an invisible force, he couldn't resist. He didn't want to resist. Swallowing hard, he brought one hand up to the nape of her slender neck. As his mouth came down upon hers, his heart thudded erratically, a dizzying rush of excitement and desire nearly making his head spin. Though her lips were soft and pliable beneath his, he sensed her initial shyness, her mouth simply accepting the kiss. Thinking he should pull back, he heard a slight moan in the back of her throat and her arms tightened around him. When she began to kiss him back, her lips meeting his with sudden enthusiasm, he felt a thrill of pleasure.

Her hand brushed upwards, tracing along his jaw line and he froze when her fingers came to rest against his mask. Releasing her mouth, he stared down at her. "I want the real you," she said softly. "You don't have to hide behind your mask. Not with me. If you trust me."

Wariness battled with longing until he finally surrendered, removing the mask and the wig along with it. As before, she caressed the tortured flesh of his cheek with gentle fingers and now, she also bestowed feathery kisses upon it. Closing his eyes, he nearly wept but managed to retain his composure. This didn't seem real. He was almost convinced that upon opening his eyes, he would awaken from a dream. What other explanation could there be for having this warm and passionate woman in his arms, kissing him in all his repulsive glory?

His eyes fluttered open but she was still here, now gazing at him with flushed cheeks and mirrored desire in her eyes. With a strangled groan, he found her lips again, deepening the kiss. When her mouth parted, he pressed his advantage, exploring the moist, inner recesses with his tongue. She stiffened for a moment at the unexpected invasion but then relaxed, once again returning the kiss. He finally dragged his mouth away, trailing kisses down her throat. "God, you taste sweet," he said, his voice husky. "Your hair. I want it loose and flowing. May I?"

At her nod, he found the tie and loosened it, running one hand through the glossy strands until they freely spilled over her shoulders. Without thinking, he had gradually nudged her backwards until he was lying atop her, intent on sampling her honeyed mouth again. He was careful not to crush her but the weight of him settled over her small frame. Her hand pushed up against his chest, but it was her voice that stopped him.

"Erik?"

The tremulous sound of his name cut through the haze of desire and his rather, he was ashamed to admit, blatant arousal. Trying to conceal the fact that his hands were trembling he sat upright, his breathing unnaturally harsh as he fought to regain control of himself. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean…" she started to say, pulling herself upward.

"It's all right," he cut in, intending to be reassuring but sounding strained. His teeth were clenched so hard his jaw ached. "You asked me to kiss you, not maul you. My apologies."

"No, don't you dare apologize," she said fiercely. Her tone softened as she crept closer again, one arm clinging about his shoulder. "I wanted to know and you showed me how wonderful a kiss could be. I never imagined it could be like that. I'm not very experienced at this."

He almost laughed but held it in, afraid it would be tinged with bitterness. "Neither am I."

"I only stopped you because I could feel…that is, I knew you were…oh dear…." she trailed off helplessly, her cheeks exuding a rosy stain that he could see even in this dim light.

"You were right to stop me. At least one of us needs to keep our wits intact. Now, I think it best that we say goodnight."

Holding the candle aloft, he guided her upstairs and stopped in front of her room. Grasping her hand, he pressed his lips against her fingers. "Sleep well, ma chère."

Once shut in his chambers, he sat on his bed, blankly staring into space. The physical ache of unfulfilled longing was fading but emotionally, he still felt tied in knots. He had fallen for this woman completely and had no idea how or when it had happened. The exhaustion he had continually batted aside was creeping up again, invading his muscles and bones. Fingers clumsily working at the buttons, he cast aside his jacket and waistcoat. Shoes were kicked off and he began to unbutton his shirt when a knock at the door made him frown. Opening it, he waited for her to speak.

"I don't want to be alone tonight."

"Mellie…"

"Could we not just hold each other? Sleep side by side? I know it's a scandalous thing to ask of you but that doesn't seem to have stopped me before."

He shook his head, rubbing at his temples. "You're determined to test me in every way tonight, aren't you. Do you really think this is wise?"

"I trust you."

Sighing with a mixture of impatience and disbelief that he was even considering this, he took her elbow and led her to the bed. With a twinge of wry amusement, he noted that she was still wrapped in her dressing gown and he had no intention of undressing any further. What a chaste couple they made.

The bed was large enough for the two of them, but just barely. He lay flat on his back while she turned on her side, towards him. "Do you make it a habit of sleeping in your clothes?" she asked, her tone teasing.

"Only when there's a beautiful woman in my bed that I'm intent on not ravishing."

"What did you think of the symphony?"

Another sigh was poised to escape but he held it back, curtly saying, "I'm not in the mood for discussing this right now."

"But did you like it?" she insisted.

He realized she would continue to pester him until receiving a satisfactory answer. "Yes, I liked it very much. It even exceeded my expectations. Goodnight, Mellie."

"Goodnight."

Blowing out the candle on the bedside table, he settled his head back on the pillow, conscious of the enticing figure mere inches away. It wouldn't surprise him if he lay awake until morning. He had never slept with someone at his side. But once his eyes closed, turning his world to black, his tension seemed to dissolve and he was asleep before he even finished the thought.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

In a twist of irony that was both wonderful and cruel, Melodie was never sightless in her dreams. Everything was viewed through perfect vision, with rich, saturated colours and vibrant clarity. It was always a disappointment to awaken to her dull, blurry reality – unless, of course, she was having a nightmare.

She awoke with her heart pounding, mouth dry, and feeling as if she'd been fleeing for her life. The details were already receding but the threatening feeling of being hunted still remained. Lying on her side, she attempted to roll forward but oddly found that she couldn't move. Only then did she become aware of a heavy weight draped over the curve of her waist and another obstruction across her legs. Panicked at finding herself trapped, the sharp burst of fear in her chest lasted for just a split second until she remembered where she was – in Erik's bed.

Extending a fluttering hand, she felt the outline of his muscled forearm, possessively flung atop her from behind. As she slowly regained all her senses, she realized just how close he really was. The heat of his body seeped through her shift and gown, warming her skin completely from her shoulders and down her back. Though she didn't know for sure, she could only assume that was one of his legs thrown atop hers, the material of his trousers slightly scratchy against her bare legs. The vivid mental picture created in her mind was as clear as any dream she'd ever had, making her blush hotly.

Her request had seemed reasonable enough last night, when she'd been in such a vulnerable state. Now, this position felt terribly indecent and she could only blame herself. Even so, she didn't find herself in any rush to escape the embrace. Rhythmic puffs of warm breath tickled the nape of her neck, making her smile. When she recalled the way they had kissed, a delicious shiver ran through her, curling her toes. The sensual, pulse-quickening sensation of desire was entirely new to her but now that she'd had a taste of it, she could understand its addictive quality.

Lying there for a while, she simply enjoyed his nearness. She would, however, eventually have to get up. Hopeful she could slip out of bed without waking him, she attempted to lift his arm, struggling with the weight of it. He grunted at the jostling movement and though she tried to roll forward, she was effectively trapped. Her legs were still entangled with his and her hair was caught on something.

"Erik?" she said, gently shaking his arm. There was no response, so she repeated his name a little louder. Another muffled snort reached her ears and the pressure about her waist tightened briefly. Then, with an abruptness that startled her, she was released.

"Sorry," he mumbled thickly, clearing his throat.

"That's all right. Did you sleep well?" Despite feeling tongue-tied and shy, she tried to sound nonchalant.

"Actually, I did."

From the shifting of the mattress and the location of his voice, she knew he had risen from the bed. He had moved so fast, she imagined he must have leapt to his feet. Sitting up, her hands brushed downwards, checking to make sure she was presentable. She adjusted the neckline of her gown as she finally stood up and turned to face him. "Sorry to have woken you. Why don't you go back to sleep?"

"It's fine. I'm awake now."

Her befuddled mind could think of nothing clever to say. "I'll see you downstairs, then."

She hastened to her room, glad to make her escape and wondering how long this awkwardness would last. Pouring water into the basin, she first washed her face and then completed the rest of her morning routine. After changing into a fresh blouse and skirt, she automatically reached for her hairbrush before remembering her fit of temper last night. Annoyed with herself, she approximated where the brush could have landed and dropped to her hands and knees. Making sweeping motions across the floor, she managed to find several hairpins and an alarming amount of dust, but that was all. This was hopeless.

Scowling and uttering her favourite curse, she jumped up and threw open the door. She tilted her head at the sound of approaching footsteps that halted before her.

"Is something wrong?" Erik asked.

"No. Well, yes. I can't find my hairbrush."

Stepping back, she allowed him to enter and swirled her arm around. "I dropped it over here somewhere." Ten seconds later, the elusive item was nudged into her hand.

"Amazing how you managed to drop it so far beneath the bed," he observed, his tone somehow knowing and amused. "Hold still a moment. I want to take a look at your wound."

She obliged, absently patting at the front of her skirt. Inspecting it quickly, he sounded satisfied when he spoke. "It appears fine. I thought to clean it this morning but it doesn't seem necessary. It's not painful, I presume?"

"As long as I don't jab it with the brush," she replied.

"Ahh, I see. I wanted to return this to you as well."

Pivoting around, she accepted the next object, running her fingers over the crystals embedded in the hairpin. "Oh yes, thank you." She placed both items on her bedside table. Turning towards him once more, she noted that he had inclined his head just enough for her to discern a bleary view of his face. Although the sight was mildly out of focus, she blinked twice with surprise. "You're not wearing your mask."

He hesitated before responding. "It does chafe against my skin sometimes. Physically, it would be more comfortable not to wear it. That is, if you find it acceptable."

"I've already told you that I do and I meant it."

His hand flashed across her vision and she thought she might be pulled into his arms. Instead, he briefly caressed her hair, tucking the stray strands behind her ear. "Mellie, now that our work is complete, what do you intend to do?"

This question had been looming for some time, but she had managed to avoid it until now. "I don't know."

"Could I convince you to stay?"

The thought of leaving, especially after what they had shared last night, was unbearable, but she had no answers. "I don't…I don't see how it's possible."

"Nothing needs to be decided now," he said, sounding like his usual smooth and assured self. "Perhaps our next decision should simply be what to have for breakfast."

She fervently wished all of life's decisions could be that simple.

* * *

A/N: So please tell me, did I do the first kiss justice? Am I pushing the PG-13 rating (or T-rating)? The previous chapter had over 200 "hits", so please come out of lurkdom and let me know your thoughts (Yes, I know that doesn't mean 200 people read it, but the number still surprised me).

Now some shout outs:

Terpsichore: I literally could kiss YOU for your comments. I've dreamed of getting something published someday but I always think it's just a dream. Thank you for your kind words.

Allegratree: Thanks once again for the Don Giovanni idea and the other suggestions, now edited in the previous chapter.

FireCeltiePhoenix: Two reviews on separate sites. Many thanks!

Dreamer: Your two cents are always helpful. Thank you.

To everyone: I literally feed off your reviews. They energize me and mean more than I can ever say. Thanks for the support.


	20. Ch 19: Who Is This Man?

Making sure that he hadn't forgotten anything, Henry shrugged into his coat and strode down the carpeted hallway towards the front door.

"Henry!" called out a voice from behind.

Stopping in his tracks, he turned to face the man. "Yes, David?"

"I wish to speak with you."

Despite his irritation at the order, Henry managed to keep his face blandly neutral. "As you can see, I'm just heading out."

"This won't take long."

David disappeared into the drawing room and as much as Henry would have liked to ignore the directive, he had no choice but to follow. Entering the room, decorated mainly in pinks and yellows, he stood among the comfortable chaises and chairs but did not sit. His gaze slid from David to the piano, still gleaming from regular polishes by the housemaids but for the most part, not played since Melodie's departure. This room held too many memories of her and thus, he tended to avoid it. Although he supposed it was inevitable that she would have left him one day, the moment seemed to have come all too soon – and this deceptively angelic looking man standing before him had been the cause.

"What is this about?" Henry asked, remaining cautious.

"That was quite the spectacle the other night. Everyone I know is still twittering over the mysterious, masked Michael Blythe. According to Father, you're the one who arranged it all. Is that true?"

Henry met the younger man's penetrating gaze. "That is true."

"Fascinating."

As David stepped a little closer, Henry found himself rather unnerved by the intensity radiating from him. Usually, he was ducking out of the way of his father's scrutiny or laughing on the arm of a lovely female companion, looking as if he didn't have a care in the world. This focused, serious expression was new and somehow dangerous. "I find it curious," David continued, "that you share the same surname of 'Blythe'. That could hardly be coincidence."

Not for the first time, Henry cursed his inept and uninspired imagination. When he had conjured up the name of the composer out of thin air, he'd said the first thing that popped to mind. 'Blythe' was not a terribly uncommon name but to claim mere coincidence at this point would likely be overly suspicious. Ideas tumbled frantically through his mind while he outwardly – he hoped – kept his composure intact.

"You're right," he said at last. "We are related, very far down the family line in France. He's a distant cousin of mine."

For some inexplicable reason, David's eyes seemed to alight with an inner flame at this revelation. "So he _is_ from France."

Wondering why that particular fact was so interesting, Henry slowly said, "Well, yes. Surely you must have noticed his accent. And you know I have relatives there."

David nodded, looking thoughtful. "Yes, I had forgotten. Since he is family, I assume you know him well?"

Still wary about this inquisition, Henry answered the question with one of his own. "Why the sudden interest? You've never cared to inquire about my private life before."

"Let's just say my curiosity has been aroused. For instance, what lies behind that mask of his?"

Although Henry was growing increasingly uncomfortable, he tried not to make it visible. "He has his reasons," he said.

"A horrific deformity, perhaps?" David pressed.

Henry finally exposed a sliver of his irritation as he snapped, "This is an entirely pointless conversation and becoming insulting. If you'll excuse me, I really must go."

Intending to turn on his heel, he was stayed by David's upheld hand. "Wait, I do have a point. You may not know your cousin as well as you think. He's a wanted criminal."

"That's preposterous," he scoffed, injecting his words with as much indignation as he could muster.

"It's the truth. Consider that the source is Ramsey Farr, my good friend and barrister."

As Henry listened to David's tale, he wavered between disbelief and a disturbing fear that maybe, just maybe, this outlandish claim could be true. Once he'd heard it all, he had to concede there seemed to be many plausible elements – Paris, the debut of an opera, a composer half hidden behind a mask. However, Erik at least deserved the benefit of the doubt. He had, after all, come to Melodie's aid and seemed to care for her well-being.

"A remarkable story," Henry said, keeping his tone mild.

David smiled but it held no warmth, only serving to emphasize the unpleasantness of the conversation. "No story. It's a fact. You can check your own sources, if you like, since you have ties to Paris. I must say I'm surprised at your lack of concern, considering this man is Melodie's employer."

"Leave Mellie out of this." Though Henry's intent was to sound stern, it fell flat. Not bothering to excuse himself this time, he simply turned his back on David and headed out.

"Ask him yourself if you don't believe me!"

Henry kept marching ahead, closing the front door with a little more force than necessary. The glass pane rattled in protest. Flinging a rather curt set of directions to the driver, Jacob, he settled back on the cushiony seat of the waiting carriage. His thoughts randomly skipped from one to another, swirling round his brain. He really knew nothing about Erik but Melodie had come to know him well. As much as he wanted to confront the man about this news immediately, he reasoned it might be best to approach Melodie first. Perhaps he had been wrong in backing down so quickly when he had initially met Erik. The mysterious composer had been polite but terribly evasive about his past.

He also had to consider that the bearer of this information was David, regardless of his claim that Ramsey had been a witness to the disaster at the Opera Populaire. Any fondness that he had once held for the only son of Albert Wentworth was fast diminishing in light of his harassment of Melodie. While he did not know it with any certainty, he guessed that David's keen interest in the fictitious Michael Blythe was somehow related to her.

When the carriage rolled to a stop in front of the black iron gate of their destination, Henry did not wait for Jacob to assist him. Stepping down to the dirt road, he looked up towards the young man. "Might I have a word with you, Jacob?"

"Yes, sir."

Looking slightly nervous, as though he expected to be admonished for something, Jacob descended from his post. He held his thin frame with a rigid tenseness and regarded Henry through unkempt hair that seemed to perpetually fall across his eyes.

Normally, Henry would have eased the youngster's worries by assuring him he was not being reprimanded but this evening, he had no patience for it. "Has David ever inquired into whom you're taking me to visit or where I'm going?"

Jacob appeared startled by the question. "Young Mr. Wentworth? No, sir, he's never asked me that."

"Has anyone else?"

"Mrs. Wentworth asked me once. I told her you were going to the doctor."

"Good, Jacob, just as we discussed. Now, if David – young Mr. Wentworth – ever asks you this question, you are to recite the same story. I'm visiting Dr. Stillman." With a pointed index finger, Henry extended his arm towards the stone cottage. "You are never to reveal this location under any circumstance, nor the fact that Melodie resides here. David can be persistent but do not allow him to intimidate you. I'm sorry to sound harsh, but remember that I am your employer and I expect you to follow my directions to the letter. If he becomes insistent and gives you any trouble, refer him to me. I hope I've made myself clear."

"Yes, sir, very clear."

Finally allowing his tone to soften, he said, "I'm sure this is all very bewildering to you, but I appreciate your discretion. Thank you, Jacob, that is all."

Walking up the short, narrow path that led to the house, Henry took a deep breath before sharply rapping on the door.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Is this better?"

"Yes, Peter, much improved. Now go on to the next page."

Continuing to softly play the piano, Melodie smiled to herself at this exchange. In conjunction with reading lessons, Peter was now learning to write as well. He had proudly shown her samples of his work and she was duly impressed by how rapidly he was progressing. With his keen intelligence, it was a shame he was not enrolled in school. She truly hoped his future could expand beyond the horizon of his father's farm.

Almost a full week had passed since the night of the symphony and yet here she was, still residing in Erik's home. He had not asked her again what she intended to do and she had not brought up the subject herself. Indeed, she was still in the process of pondering her options, which unfortunately, seemed limited. She had been glad to receive Henry's note yesterday, informing them of his plan to visit this evening. It was time to seek advice from someone who was not so besieged and blinded by emotions.

After the considerable closeness she and Erik had shared, they'd spent the last few days avoiding each other's presence. Whenever she did find herself near him, her hazy world swam with the images and feelings of being ensnared in his arms. Her bold requests that night had stemmed from a desperate need to erase David's repulsive touch from her memory. While she had expected comfort or perhaps a simple pleasantness in Erik's kiss, the acute spark of desire that had ignited within her had left her strangely shocked, thrilled, and shamed. It was safest to keep her distance from him and apparently, he felt the same way.

At the knock on the door, her fingers stilled and she rose to her feet. She heard Erik's familiar footsteps cross the room and Henry's voice soon greeted him.

"Do I have to go?" Peter asked, with obvious disappointment.

"I'm afraid so. Perhaps you can ask Erik which section to work on for your next lesson," she suggested.

As the boy raced away to clamor for his teacher's attention, she turned towards Henry's approach. "Mellie," he said, leaning in to kiss her cheek.

"Hello, Henry. Would you like some tea? I can start the…"

He interrupted her, cutting her of in mid-sentence. "No, not tonight. I must speak with you privately."

Sensing his urgency, her brow furrowed. "Privately? I thought you had news for both me and Erik."

"Oh yes, I had almost forgotten. I shall talk to you together later but for now, we need to converse in private."

"All right. I suppose we can go out back."

She led him towards the kitchen and called out to Erik, letting him know where they were going. Once outside, she shut the door, wondering what was wrong. "What is this about? You're starting to worry me."

"I don't quite know how to approach the subject so I'll just come out with it. David made some very disturbing accusations against Erik today, connecting him to a fire at an opera house in Paris two years ago. It's a tale that is almost too fantastical to believe but I couldn't just ignore it."

Stunned, Melodie pressed a hand to her stomach, the remains of her dinner churning amidst a storm tossed sea. Her heart began to thud almost painfully.

_How could David possibly have found out about this?_

"I know you've talked with Erik at length about his past. Did he mention the Opera Populaire at all?"

Biting her lower lip, she pivoted away from Henry's gaze while her fingers continued to dig into her stomach. She tried to stall for time. "I…I'm not sure," she said weakly.

"Mellie, what is it?"

"I'm just surprised."

Her mouth parted with a gasp when she found her shoulders pinched within his tight grip. "No," he stated with sudden surety, "you're not surprised. You're worried. I see it in your eyes. My God, so it's true then."

Frozen in place, she willed herself to deny it, to lie, to protect Erik as he had striven to protect her. But she couldn't do it.

_Forgive me, Erik._

"It's true," she whispered.

Released abruptly from his grasp, she took a step backwards and Henry began pacing, shuffling back and forth. In her mind, she could visualize the scowl on his face, the creases of age deepening into fresh lines of concern. "How long have you known about this?" he asked.

"For a while."

"And yet you continue to live with this man. Have you lost all sense of reason? He's dangerous." Agitation made him speak quickly, his words running into each other. "This ends tonight. Gather your things together. You're leaving."

Although dismayed, she could hardly blame him for his reaction. "Wait, Henry, please. I need to know exactly what David told you."

"Why? You've already admitted it's the truth."

"Yes, from the little you've told me. But you know David can't be trusted. He may have added his own embellishments and lies."

Though he uttered an impatient sigh, Henry granted her request and repeated David's version of what had happened that fateful night in Paris. Her heart sank as she realized that all the details in the story were true and in fact, only brushed the surface of what had really happened. The extent of Erik's obsession with Christine lay much deeper than the brief vulnerability he had exposed on stage. Then there was the small fact that Erik's hands had deliberately extinguished human life on more than one occasion. That piece of information was yet unknown to Henry and she could only hope it would remain hidden and buried.

"Well?" he said, his tone questioning. "Are there any inaccuracies?"

"No."

"Then let's go."

At the touch of his hand on her arm, she spun away. "No, I can't leave. Not like this," she exclaimed.

He uttered her name as a warning. "Mellie…"

Gathering every fiber of her courage, she overrode his words. "I'm sorry to defy you, Henry, but I'm not a child. I realize the time has come for me to leave but it won't be tonight, as if I'm running away in fear. Yes, I know what Erik has done but it's in the past and he is a changed man. He would never hurt me. I didn't tell you but that night of the gala, David conspired with his friend Ramsey to lure me away from the party. If Erik hadn't shown up when he did, David would have…" Stumbling for just a moment, she picked up the thread again, jutting out her chin. "Well, thankfully Erik came to my aid and he bloodied David's nose. That's why he's come to you with this. He's intent on hurting me in any way possible and now he's included Erik in his sights."

"But this isn't about David. It's about Erik and nothing that you've told me convinces me that he's 'a changed man', as you say. People perished in that fire, Mellie! He _is_ dangerous, whether you choose to acknowledge it or not." He sounded perturbed as he continued on. "Your judgment is usually sound but something is blinding you to Erik's faults." Pausing yet again, he finally issued a quiet, authoritative statement. "You're in love with him, aren't you."

Sucking in a breath, she shook her head, emitting a strained and wheezing laugh. "Of course not. That's absurd." She had no control over the blood that surged through her veins, flooding her face with heat.

"I've observed the two of you together and the signs are there, whether you realize it or not. I should never have permitted this arrangement," he murmured, almost to himself.

The beginnings of anger stirred as she snapped, "I did not ask for your permission. You're not my…" Catching herself, she swallowed hard, horrified by what had been about to fall from her lips.

"I'm not your father. Is that what you were going to say?" Both anger and hurt hardened his voice, almost unrecognizable in its coldness.

"I'm sorry, Henry, I didn't mean it." Reaching towards him, she found nothing but air.

"It's time to bring him into this."

She heard the creak of the door opening and flinched as Henry bellowed Erik's name. With her heart in her throat, she followed him inside.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

After seeing Peter out, Erik paced the room for a while before finally sitting down on his chair by the hearth. Henry's appearance at the door had been expected, but his odd demeanour was puzzling. Yesterday's letter had intimated at good news but clearly, something was troubling the man.

Erik shifted in the chair, aware that Henry's presence deepened his own unease. These last few days he'd existed in a strange sort of limbo, as if waiting for something to happen. When he had asked Melodie to stay, he'd done so out of pure selfishness, never considering the consequences. He imagined Henry might have a few choice words if he knew the situation. While he couldn't bring himself to retract his request, neither did he mention it again. Being near her, inhaling her scent and caressing the curve of her mouth with his eyes was sheer torture, so he kept his distance.

"_Erik!_" came Henry's shout.

He stiffened, bracing himself for a father's wrath as he slowly stood and turned around.

_Mellie must have told him._

Henry strode forth, his normally placid face set with tight-lipped fury as Melodie rushed from behind, looking positively ill.

Halting just a few feet away, Henry spoke first, his eyes narrowed. "When I first met you, I asked what your intentions were towards Mellie. You lied to me."

Trying to instill a credible sincerity to his voice, Erik protested, "It wasn't like that."

"Oh, but I think it was. You first tried to lure Christine Daaé into your web and now you've moved on to Mellie."

Though the wave of shock that assaulted him was enough to send him reeling backwards, he managed to hold his stance. His gaze slid to Melodie, taking in hands that bunched and clawed at her skirt, threatening to tear the linen to shreds. Her betrayal of his confidence left him icy cold with rage and oddly numb.

"I trusted you," he hissed.

"No, Erik, it wasn't me. It was David."

"What?"

"Henry, tell him what happened," she implored.

Erik's eyes flickered back to the older man, who gave a terse nod of his head. "It's true. David stopped me today, just as I was heading out the door. A friend of his was at the Opera Populaire the very night that you appeared on stage with Miss Daaé. He was a witness to everything, including your unmasking, the way you disappeared with that helpless woman in your arms and the crashing of the chandelier. Now I know why you refused to answer my questions about your past but you won't escape so easily now. What do you have to say about all this?"

For the first time in a long while, Erik felt like an animal, backed into a corner. He knew that Henry was acting out of concern for Melodie, but that didn't stop his instinctive, self-protective defenses from rearing up. "I'm not proud of what I did," he said carefully, "but it's in the past and I'm trying to forge a new life."

Henry regarded him with unflinching scrutiny. "Mellie thinks you're a changed man. Are you?"

"I'm trying."

"That's not good enough. I think this has been your plan all along. What you failed to do with Christine, you're now attempting with Mellie."

"Do not speak to me about Christine!" Erik exploded, chest heaving with harried breaths. "You know nothing of her or of my life, so do not presume to pass judgment on me. Whether or not you believe me, I have no ulterior motive where Mellie is concerned. I have committed some terrible deeds. I don't deny it. And while I'm trying to move on, people like you and Wentworth continue to throw my past in my face, never allowing me to move beyond it."

"Do you not think you should face the consequences of your actions?"

"If I return to Paris, I'll be hanged. Would that please you, Henry?"

Silence descended upon the room as the two men stared at each other. When Henry responded at last, he sounded tired and resigned. "No. I would find no pleasure in yet another death." Absently rubbing at the back of his neck, he turned towards the young woman who continued to look pale and stricken. "Mellie, what can I say to convince you to leave?"

"I'm sorry but I've made my decision." Though her voice was soft, it was firm in her resolve.

Reaching into his coat pocket, Henry withdrew a bag and a sealed envelope, handing both items to Erik. "This is the original reason for my visit. I had a meeting with Mr. Wallace and Mr. Rosenberg. They've honoured their promise of a bonus for Michael's Blythe's appearance at the gala. And in that note, you'll find their request for another commission."

Palming the significant weight of the bag in one hand and the crisp lightness of the envelope in the other, Erik raised an eyebrow. "You have no objection to Mellie and myself continuing to work together?"

"It seems that neither my opinions nor my concerns are of any import. Mellie has clearly stated that she's capable of making her own decisions and doesn't need my permission. I think it best that I not visit for a while. I'm not sure why David came to me with all of this, but obviously he has some ulterior motive. I don't want to risk being followed. No need to see me to the door. I'll let myself out."

As he marched away, Melodie looked towards his retreating back. Although her mouth had opened, as if she meant to call after him, she said nothing. Erik half expected the front door to be slammed shut, but the sound was barely audible. Tossing the bag onto his chair, he flicked open the envelope and scanned the note. "They want a concerto next," he said. When she didn't comment, he glanced up. She stood so still, as if immobilized by shock. "Mellie, are you all right?"

Only when her head swung back towards him did he realize she was fighting back tears. "Not really." Her voice cracked as she blinked rapidly.

Wanting to ease her distress, he took two steps forward before she backed away, saying, "Please, don't."

As much as he loathed admitting it, the rejection stung. "So he's turned you against me then."

"I'm not going. Not tonight."

Not bothering to disguise the bitter disappointment in his voice, he stated, "But you are going."

"I…I can't talk about this right now." Brushing past him, she fled upstairs and this time, the distinct slamming of a door reached his ears.

Left standing alone, he crumpled the paper still clutched in his hand and flung it to the floor. News of the next commission should have been a celebratory one, however, in the aftermath of tonight's storm, it hardly seemed to matter.

The time had come; she was leaving him.

It had been inevitable from the start, he knew, but that knowledge didn't make this any easier. If David and Henry hadn't interfered, perhaps things could have been different; they had been different in his dreams.

Fingers twitched and the pulse beneath his eye began its maddening tick. Battling the urge to scream and curse, he launched himself towards the mantle and pounded one fist against the jagged stone edge. Bright red blood soon dripped from the split skin and seeped into the cuff of his shirt. He didn't notice, didn't feel a thing, continuing to beat a driving, punishing rhythm.

_I have no one to blame but myself._

_

* * *

_

A/N: A huge **THANK YOU** to all who reviewed the previous chapter. I'm overwhelmed by the response and love you all to bits! Your comments really do keep me going and I hope you continue to let me know your thoughts. As always, thanks to my beta, penkitten. Now some responses:

Terpsichore: Thank you so much for pointing out that hugely glaring error that even my beta didn't catch! I was quite mortified (in the first sentence, too!) and it's been corrected. Erik blows a kiss your way

Allegratree: I knew the kissing wouldn't be to your liking. Ah well. As for chapter titles, Ch. 12 & 13 are connected, so it was supposed to read: "Ch. 12: What Raging Fire… Ch. 13:…Shall Flood The Soul" to show the connection. Unfortunately, the dot dot dots got dropped by the system, which is highly annoying. When I titled the Prologue, I used a phrase from the musical libretto because it fit well. Then it became a kind of game to see how long I could keep going with the idea. Believe me, if I ever write another POTO fic, I'll never do it again because it is admittedly cheesy.


	21. Ch 20: A New Game Will Begin

With a slight toss of her head, Melodie read the paragraph once more. Sure that it had sunk into her brain this time, she turned the page but before long, her mind was wandering again.

Much had happened over the course of the last few days since Henry's visit. The note from the managers had requested a meeting with Michael Blythe so the following morning, Melodie accompanied her 'employer' to the theatre. They wished his next work to be a violin concerto and if possible, wanted it completed by mid-November. Much like the symphony, the schedule was an aggressive one but not impossible. Mr. Blythe agreed to the terms.

When they returned home, Erik suggested that she could compose the concerto herself. He reasoned that she now had the technical ability to do so and after the confrontation with Henry, he thought she might not be comfortable working with him. Surprised by the offer, she took some time in considering it and for a long while, she was torn. The independent side of her wanted to accept the challenge of writing the music on her own, and since their relationship had become so strained, it would almost be easier. But another part of her – the one who seemed to melt within Erik's presence, all logic fleeing from her mind – couldn't stop thinking about Henry's accusation.

_You're in love with him._

She had never been in love before. How would she know and recognize it if she was? After much pondering, she feared it must be true; despite Henry's fury and her own sense of propriety, she didn't want to leave him – and yet she knew she must.

On her next trip into town for supplies, she spoke with several shopkeepers about possible accommodations. One woman brightened considerably at her inquiry, as she had a room above the shop that had been vacant for the last year. Melodie explained that while she adored her uncle, he'd becoming increasingly difficult to live with until she had no choice but to leave.

With this housing arrangement, she felt she could continue to work with Erik, even justifying it with the fact that he was more of an expert on the violin. The simple truth was, she didn't want their partnership to end. When she announced her plans to Erik, he took the news well; he displayed little to no emotion. His reaction or lack thereof, left her both disappointed and relieved. This revelation of being in love was still new, fresh and fragile and quite honestly, she didn't know what to do with it yet.

Shifting back on the cushions, she put the book aside and absently rubbed her eyes.

"Stop that," Erik chided.

Though he spoke quietly, it startled her, as they had both been reading in silence for a while. It was evening and although several candles were lit, it probably wasn't the best idea for her to attempt reading in the dim light. "You've been rubbing at your eyes for the past twenty minutes," he informed her.

"Have I?"

"Yes. Actually, I've noticed you doing so for the last few weeks. Have they been bothering you lately?"

"A little," she lied, choosing not to reveal just how much they had been irritating her. To speak of her fears aloud would be too akin to sealing her fate.

"You should stop straining your eyes."

His advice was almost predictable; he had been issuing it from the day they had met. She said nothing, leaning her head back and closing her eyes.

This was her final night in Erik's home. He had already hired a cart to arrive tomorrow morning to take her belongings to her new abode in town. Other than her clothes and a few personal belongings, she didn't claim ownership to much else. While the knowledge that their professional relationship would continue took much of the sting out of the parting, she remained saddened. The months she'd spent here had been special but now, it was time to move on to the subsequent phase of whatever was to come.

After several moments, Erik spoke again. "Have you written to Henry?"

"No, not yet. I will."

Guilt stabbed at her as she recalled how hurt he had sounded that night. Her words had been so heartless, so cruel. Henry was her father in every way, regardless of their lack of shared blood. Once again, quick anger had loosened her tongue, resulting in instant regret. A letter of apology should have been written immediately, however, days had passed and it still wasn't done. She vowed to do it soon. Her thoughts flickered to something even more unpleasant and she finally had to give voice to a concern that had been nagging her. Raising her head, she turned towards Erik, whom shared the space on the opposite end of the couch. "Why would David go to Henry about your past? What could possibly be his intent?"

"Something malicious, I'm sure," he grumbled, "but I wouldn't want to hazard a guess."

"I'm so sorry you've been dragged into this. It's because of me."

"You have nothing to apologize for."

His tone was clipped, stern, and she imagined he probably didn't want to discuss this. Mere speculation on their part was of no use anyway. It was simply infuriating that they could do nothing but wait for David to make his next move, like an opponent in some crazed game of chess. She secretly worried that he might start spreading rumours and there was nothing society loved more than scandalous gossip. If anyone else were able to corroborate Ramsey's story, Erik would be doomed.

Her hand must have strayed towards her eyes again, as she found her wrist caught in his gentle grip. It was the first time they had touched in many days. With a sheepish half-smile, she drew back her hand.

"I could read to you," he offered.

Nodding, she rested her head against the cushion again. "I would like that."

Soon lulled by his beautiful voice, her body relaxed until it was limp and pliant, and all thoughts of David were swept into the furthest, darkest corner of her mind.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"And here we are," Lauralee called out cheerfully, unlocking the door and holding it open.

Melodie stepped through first, cane in one hand and a large carpetbag in the other. Bringing up the rear, Erik struggled with her wooden trunk, dropping it to the floor with a loud thud.

"It can get stifling in the summer," Lauralee continued, "but now that we're in to September, it's quite comfortable. I've left the window open to bring in some air and the room has been freshly scrubbed. I suppose I'll let you get settled. You know where to find me if you need anything."

"Thank you," Melodie said, setting down her bag. After the door was closed, she swung around to address Erik. "So, what do you think? I confess that when Lauralee first showed me the room, I didn't inspect it very carefully. She described the room to me, and what it contained. It's not horrible, is it?"

He walked past her, talking as he moved. "No, it certainly doesn't qualify as horrible. The space is small but clean. While I have use of the cart, I'll go back to the house and bring some more items."

"Oh? Such as?"

"A bedside table, a more comfortable chair, perhaps a cushion or two."

His thoughtfulness touched her. "That's really not necessary," she protested, but when he failed to respond, she murmured a simple 'thank you'. Striking out with the cane, she found the bed, and then maneuvered around it to the next piece of furniture. As she explored the surface with her hand, she surmised it was the dresser and slid open the top drawer, wondering how deep it was. Something small and grey flashed before her eyes, surprising her as she stumbled backwards. When she felt a warm fuzziness graze her collarbone and scurry across it, she shrieked, arms flailing, and landed squarely on her behind. The impact was jarring, rattling her teeth as she just barely missed biting her tongue.

Sitting there dazed for several seconds, she began to swipe at the neckline of her bodice with both hands. "Is it gone? Is it gone?" she asked frantically.

"I think it may have ran under your skirts."

With another strangled scream, she bolted to her feet and grabbed a fistful of the heavy cotton, shaking the skirts furiously. As the distinct sound of amused male guffawing reached her ears, she froze, narrowing her eyes. "I'm sorry, ma chère, I couldn't resist teasing," he said, still choked with laughter.

Zeroing in on his voice, she stomped towards him and slapped at his chest, the blows landing in time with each word. "That…is…not…funny!"

"Forgive me," he apologized again, though his attempt to inject a seriousness to his tone failed miserably. "Are you hurt?"

"Only my pride." Puffing up her cheeks, she blew out a breath, steeling herself against even the smidgeon of a smile. The humour in the situation wasn't lost on her; she must have made quite a spectacle of herself. Biting her lip was the only way to prevent herself from laughing, as she wasn't about to give him the satisfaction. She did, however, have to ask for one favour. "Erik, would you mind checking the other drawers? I don't wish to find another surprise."

"It's the least I can do."

After stating that all was clear, he told her he would return shortly with the other items to make her more comfortable. "And then tomorrow, we start the concerto?" he suggested.

"Tomorrow," she agreed. "And just for the record, mice don't usually frighten me – only when they lunge for my throat."

As his hearty chuckles faded into the distance, she allowed herself to succumb to helpless laughter, shaking her head. It was certainly a memorable start to this new journey.

* * *

A/N: This is getting to be a bad habit, I know, but here is another pre-beta version for your reading pleasure. If it helps, my beta came back with no changes the last two times. Sorry this chapter is so short. It made sense to end it here because of what I'm doing with the timeline in the next chapter, which will also be a short one. 

Thanks once again, everyone, for continuing to read and review. I only have a couple of comments to make. The spelling of 'mantle', according to my dictionary, is acceptable like that or as 'mantel'. I'm not sure whether it's an American/British thing or not. But thank you anyway, Terpsichore, for your eagle-eye. And shimmeringtears, thank you for making me laugh with your review. Oh, and a special hello to those of you who are also on the GerardButlerdotNet board. Nice to see you here too :-)


	22. Ch 21: Your Darkest Fears

Considering the extent of all the recent upheavals, Erik marvelled at how quickly he and Melodie fell back into their routine of composing together. She usually came by in the afternoon and departed by early evening. At his insistence, he accompanied her back into town, still wary of Wentworth making an appearance some day.

Their relationship reverted to one of strict professionalism but he had come to accept it, albeit reluctantly, telling himself he should be grateful she remained in his life at all. He rather suspected any other woman would have meekly bowed under Henry's pressure and fled, never to be seen again. During their last few days of residing together, he'd hovered on the edge of asking her to reconsider her decision and stay but each time, he'd held his tongue. The former Opera Ghost would not have relinquished her so easily, but in trying to set a new path as a man of civilized society, he was determined to respect her wishes.

When not in her presence, he had Sascha for company and occasionally Peter. For someone who had spent years in self-solitude, it was an almost disturbing revelation to find himself lonely within his own home. The eagerness in which he anticipated her arrival each day bordered on ridiculous and after seeing her safely to the shop door, he loathed to bid her goodnight. This cycle had become a daily ritual over the past month.

The concerto was progressing nicely; they were in the midst of the second movement. While the symphony had been bold and dramatic – or as Melodie preferred to describe it, 'adventurous' – they decided to make the concerto lush and romantic. What better instrument than the violin to evoke an emotional response and appeal to the hearts of the audience. If he had his way, there wouldn't be a dry eye in the theatre after the last note died away.

Following a quick bite of lunch, he returned to the piano to work on a theme he had been developing since morning. Thinking it might be better suited for the final movement, he made a mental note to confer with Melodie about it. As he hummed to himself, another fragment of a lyrical phrase began to take shape and he experimented with it for a while before putting quill to paper. Satisfied with the result, he consulted the clock and was surprised by the hour. Melodie should have been here by now.

He wasn't the only one waiting for her; Sascha lay by the front door, eyes watchful for it to spring open. Stepping outside with the dog at his heels, he went as far as the gate and peered down the road, frowning at its emptiness.

"Perhaps she's ill," he muttered out loud.

The dog issued a throaty whine, as if in sympathetic agreement. After leading Sascha back into the house, he began the task of readying Midnight, his newly christened horse. Melodie had taken the liberty of naming the stallion several weeks ago, stating it was long overdue. As he hoisted himself onto the saddle, he realized he'd forgotten his coat. Dressed casually in a cream coloured shirt and black trousers, he felt he was presentable enough. With a light jab into the flanks of his mount, they were off. It had been a few days since he'd taken Midnight for a good, hard run, and he could literally feel the powerful animal chomping at the bit. Enjoying the cold rush of wind on his face, the loose folds of his shirt rippling against his skin, Erik allowed Midnight his head until they reached the outskirts of town.

Once in front of the shop, he quickly dismounted and tethered the animal. Pushing open the door, his arrival was announced with a tinkling bell. The shop was small and stacked high with goods, the pungent aroma of cheese permeating the air. Several ladies' heads swivelled round to regard him curiously but he took no notice, heading straight for the counter. Two more women whom were being served at the front clutched their shawls more tightly and scowled at him as he barged his way forward.

"Have you seen Melodie today?" he asked brusquely.

Irritation flared in Lauralee's eyes, but her softly rounded features remained composed as she addressed him. "As you can see, I'm with some customers right now. Could you wait a moment?"

_No, I can't._

He bit back the impatient retort, saying, "Very well. But have you seen her?"

"No, I haven't, but it's been busy today. Just give me a few minutes."

As she returned her attention to her precious customers, he spun away and headed for the stairs at the rear of the store, nearly knocking over a precarious display of preserves. Rapping his knuckles on the door, he loudly called her name. The handle rattled under his hand but it was locked, and he mentally cursed his lack of foresight in bringing his trusty lock-picking tool with him. Forming a fist, he pounded on the thick wood. "Mellie, it's Erik. Are you all right? If you can't come to the door, just call out to me so I can hear you."

The only response was complete silence.

Bounding back down the narrow stairwell, he entered the shop once more and placed himself in front of the counter. The two older ladies were still there. One of them ignored him while the other openly goggled, apparently never having clapped eyes on a masked man before. Provoked by her rudeness, he deliberately turned his head to regard her with a cold, piercing gaze. "Is there something in particular about me that interests you, Madame?" he snapped.

Spindly fingers fluttered to the base of her throat, her winged eyebrows arching so high on her forehead, they appeared poised to take flight. Expelling a huffy breath, she snatched her wrapped parcels from the countertop, saying, "I'll wait for you outside, Bonnie." The cheery little bell and the slamming of the door marked her dramatic exit.

To her credit, Lauralee looked entirely unruffled, working nimbly and efficiently to finish wrapping her remaining customer's goods. She passed them to Bonnie with an overly exuberant smile. "Thank you, Mrs. McLeran. See you next week."

Without so much as a glance in Erik's direction, the woman hurried away. Brushing her hands together, Lauralee said, "Now, you were asking about Melodie?"

"Yes, I'm concerned about her. She might be ill. I tried knocking on her door but she won't answer."

"Well, perhaps she's gone out. It's been so busy, I might not have noticed."

Her reasonable tone of voice only served to heighten his frustration and he slapped his palms onto the counter, leaning forward for emphasis. "We've been working together on a daily basis and I expected her hours ago. Something must be wrong. Either you unlock her door or I will gladly kick it down. The choice is yours."

Pursing her lips together, she glared at him with obvious disapproval. "There's no need to get nasty," she retorted. "I'll open it."

As she brushed past him, she reached into the pocket of her apron and withdrew a ring of keys. He followed her plump figure up the stairs, trailing closely behind. Even standing a step below, he felt as if he were towering over her in the cramped quarters. "Hello, Melodie, are you in there?" Lauralee called out, after knocking politely. "Your uncle is here to see you."

Clenching his teeth at this colossal waste of time, Erik barely restrained himself from yanking the keys out of her hands. "I told you she's not answering," he growled.

"I just want to be certain before we go barging in there."

At last, he heard the snick of the lock turning and the slow creaking of the door. The next sound was Lauralee's startled gasp and a distressed, "Oh my."

Beyond anxious now, he practically pushed her aside to make his way in. "What is…"

The question died on his lips as he surveyed the room. It was an utter mess – sheets of staff paper littered the floor, a chair was overturned, a shattered mirror lay fragmented at the foot of the dresser. His gaze flitted over the destruction and like a moth to a flame, he was drawn to the jagged shards of the reflective silver. Smears of dark red adorned several pieces, the violent image all too familiar. Blood.

Following the splotchy trail across the wooden floorboards with his eyes, he saw her sprawled in the far corner, unmoving. "Christ!" he swore raggedly, and in the ensuing breath, he was kneeling by her prone form. Fear sang a keen, sharp tune that sliced into his heart and stole the air from his lungs.

She lay curled on her side towards the wall, clad only in her thin shift. Gashes crisscrossed the soft pads of her feet but the cuts had long crusted over. From a cursory visual inspection, they appeared to be her only wounds. Sweeping the hair back from her face, he was jolted by the unexpected sight of her open eyes that stared blankly into nothingness. Terrified by the initial conclusion that rocketed through his brain, he forced trembling fingers to the side of her throat. Her skin seemed unnaturally cold but beneath the fragile surface, he felt a slow and rhythmic pulse. Intense relief rolled over him, weakening his knees so he had to catch himself from keeling over.

"Is…she…?"

He had forgotten that Lauralee was even here. Glancing back over his shoulder, he saw her standing there, twisting her hands together, her face stretched taut with worry. As if afraid to come any closer, she had ventured only halfway into the room.

"She's alive," he said shortly, rising to his feet. "That door – is it the only means of accessing this room?"

Giving him a strange look, she replied, "Yes."

He crossed over to the window in three rapid strides, jiggling the latch at the bottom and looking through the glass. It was a sheer vertical drop of twenty feet to the ground below and the window was tightly secured from the inside.

"Who else has a key?" he demanded.

"No one."

Noticing she still had the ring of keys clutched in her hand, he pointed towards it. "And that's been in your possession all day?"

"Yes." She patted the front of her apron. "I keep it in my pocket."

"You didn't leave it unattended at any time?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure!" she exclaimed, showing some strain under his rapid-fire inquisition. "Do you think someone broke in here and hurt her?"

Lifting an arm, he made a sweeping gesture to encompass the chaos. "What other explanation could there be?"

"Perhaps she's ill, as you suspected. I'll go fetch the doctor."

He hesitated, partly in disbelief that this marked the second occurrence of having to decide whether or not to seek a doctor's aid for her. Just as before, a rush of protective and possessive instincts welled up with a commanding insistence that no one else touch her but him.

"No. No doctor."

"But…"

"I said no!" His patience had worn thin and completely unravelled where this woman was concerned. "I will take care of her. If I decide she needs a doctor, I will let you know. Now leave us," he ordered.

Blinking at him with a dumbfounded expression, Lauralee didn't budge from her spot. "But I…"

With eyes gleaming dangerously, he advanced on her, his voice resembling a feral snarl. "You have wasted enough of my time. Get the hell out before I physically throw you out." When she failed to move swiftly enough, he roared, "_Now!_"

Squeaking with fright, she picked up her skirts and fled. He slammed the door shut, breathing deeply to regain his self-control. Only allowing himself a few seconds, he soon returned to Melodie's side. Despite all the commotion, she hadn't stirred, continuing to gaze at a seemingly fascinating blot on the wall. After calling her name in varying degrees of volume to no avail, he gathered her up in his arms. Walking over to the comfortable, upholstered chair, he sat down and held her across his lap, as if she were a child. The top of her head lolled against his shoulder and he could feel the chill of her skin beneath the shift. Rubbing her arms, he considered retrieving a blanket but quite frankly, didn't want to release her, even for a minute. The natural heat of his body would warm her soon enough. It wasn't so much the physical state of her that worried him, as much as her mind.

"What happened to you, mon amour?" he murmured.

The most logical answer to his own question was the one that filled him with the most rage: Wentworth. It was only too easy to imagine that devil somehow maneuvering himself inside – perhaps even tricking Melodie into opening the door – attacking her, and then leaving her huddled and traumatized in the corner. Erik began to speak quietly, soothingly, desperate to coax her back to reality from the blissful, pain-free world she'd succumbed to. If she lingered there for much longer, he feared she would be imprisoned there, lost to him forever. He would not allow that to happen. "I'm here, Mellie. You're safe. But you need to talk to me. Please."

For the next few agonizing minutes, he continued along the same vein but she remained unresponsive. Growing increasingly frantic, he found himself humming without even realizing it. His mouth soon formed the words of a long forgotten lullaby that his mother had sung to him on rare occasions. Crooning softly in French, he silently prayed for a miracle. Time continued to slip by, pulling him deeper into despair and just as strongly, a spark of anger began to soar. He wanted to shake her, slap her, anything to rattle her out of this void.

When he first felt her shift against him, the movement was so imperceptible, he thought it was his imagination. But then a small hand crept up his shirtfront and she angled towards him, pressing herself more closely against him, as if seeking his strength and warmth. Overjoyed, he brought his arms around her in a fierce embrace.

"Erik?" she mumbled against his chest.

"I'm here, ma chère."

He looked downwards to meet her gaze as she lifted her head up. Relieved to find her velvety dark eyes clear and lucid, he longed to kiss each freckle that dotted her pale skin. Instead, he cupped the side of her face with one hand, stroking her cheek with his thumb, and dropped a kiss on her forehead.

She, in turn, stared at him with round eyes, as if drinking in the sight of him. "I see you," she whispered. In the next instant, she clung to his shirt and buried her face into the crook of his neck. The underside of his chin was teased by the softness of her hair, and he didn't know she was crying until he felt the wetness upon his skin. These weren't great, heaving sobs or hysterics, yet the near silent weeping tore at his heart as he felt her shudder in his arms. He could think of nothing to do but rub her back in a circling motion.

As her trembling gradually subsided, he couldn't contain himself any longer. "Who did this to you? Who hurt you?"

Her reply was muffled and she sounded confused. "What? I don't…"

Taking a firm but gentle grip on her chin, he tilted it upwards so he could see her face. "Was it Wentworth?" he asked flatly.

Red-rimmed eyes narrowed and then widened with sudden understanding, as she looked stricken. "You think…oh…" Without completing the thought, she jerked her head away and attempted to jump down to the floor before he tightened his arms around her. "Please let me go."

"Stop struggling. You're not going anywhere. Not with those feet."

"What do you mean?"

He swallowed a sigh, her baffling behaviour driving him to his wit's end. "They're cut to shreds by the broken bits of mirror you must have stepped on. Do you not remember?" In answer, she shook her head. "Well, then, what _do_ you remember?"

Though it took a while, she finally spoke in a halting voice. "I remember waking to a world of darkness. No matter how many times I closed and opened my eyes, no matter how hard I rubbed at them, I could see nothing. I was plunged into total and utter blackness. My greatest fear come true. Then I stumbled out of bed and staggered about. I must have gone a bit mad. The next thing I recall is the sound of your voice, singing to me. I've never heard you sing before."

All traces of his impatience seemed to evaporate and he could only imagine her anguish. "Mellie, I'm so sorry. But you've regained your sight."

"Yes, but for how much longer? I have to face the fact that I will go completely blind. It's only a matter of when." Her face crumpled momentarily as she squeezed her eyes shut, then reopened them. "Oh, Erik, I thought I would never see your face again."

"That would not be a regrettable fact to most people," he said dryly.

She sniffed, as if offended. "Then, I suppose I am not 'most people'. But I am embarrassed about how I've behaved, like a child afraid of the dark."

"You were in shock. It's understandable."

Saying nothing further, she averted her head and he realized that having come to her senses, she must find the position of sitting on his lap disconcerting. "Let's attend to your feet. I don't want the cuts to get infected," he said briskly. Carrying her over to the bed, he deposited her on top and arranged the covers around her. "I'll go downstairs and see if there's anything useful in the shop."

As he turned to leave, she tugged at his sleeve. "Wait. What was that song you were singing?"

"A French lullaby."

"It was beautiful."

Watching with rapt attention, he regarded her hand sliding downwards until it connected with his. She placed a kiss upon his palm and the contrast of her soft lips against his rougher skin sent a shiver up his arm. It was almost laughable, really, the delightful thrill he received at so innocent an act. "Thank you," she murmured against his hand.

He was out the door and down the stairs before he remembered to breathe.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The autumn night air was crisp and cool, and David was glad to have chosen a slightly heavier coat. With a pang of wry humour, he mused that his choice of coat would not actually have mattered much. Having imbibed a good, though not indecent amount of liquor, he was pleasantly warmed from the inside out. In addition to the hint of brandy lingering on his lips, he could still taste Olivia's kisses.

Olivia Stanton, otherwise known as 'the woman in the red dress', had been his source of distraction and amusement for just over a month. Since she had beckoned him with rather unsubtle come-hither eyes the night of Blythe's symphony, he had introduced himself to her. They had been inseparable ever since then, though not entirely by his choice. She came from a respectable but unremarkable family, and was already spouting talk of marriage. He had soon learned that her nature was clinging and demanding, yet she coated it with such charm and beauty, they somehow didn't seem such terrible traits. However, he wasn't ready for the trappings of betrothal just yet.

Rounding the corner of his street, he saw his father assisting his mother down from the carriage. Not wishing to endure another barrage of questions about where he'd been and what his intentions were toward Miss Stanton, he shrunk back into the shadows. After the front door of the house closed behind his parents, he emerged from hiding. Glancing up at the carriage as he passed by, he halted at the sight of the driver. With a grimace, he was reminded that Olivia had distracted him in more ways than one.

"You, get down from there," David barked, his voice ringing out with a boom in the tranquil night air.

Taken by surprise, the young man almost toppled from his post before he steadied himself. "Y-yes, sir," he stammered. Climbing down to the ground, he stood awkwardly, shoving hands into his pockets.

"What is your name? Jeffrey, isn't it?"

"Jacob."

David nodded, taking a moment to decide how best to go about this. By no means had he forgotten his mission to uncover Blythe's past, but the combination of Olivia's ample allure and his own inherent laziness had simply delayed matters.

Two days after he had warned Henry about his distant cousin's nefarious deeds, he approached Henry to ask if he'd spoken to Blythe. The old man's reaction had been snappish to the point of being rude. In fact, David had been rather impressed by the fine display of temper – something that he had never witnessed in the usually genial man before. Although Henry had not confirmed anything in words, it was obvious that David had struck gold. Other than talking with Ramsey again to obtain as many details as possible about that night in Paris and the Opera Populaire in general, he had not investigated any further.

The fair-haired boy that shifted from one foot to the other in front of him was obviously nervous, his face thin and wary. David knew he could use the skittishness to his advantage, and he began speaking in a purely conversational manner.

"I know my father has been generous in allowing Henry use of this carriage. You've been taking him out fairly regularly, have you not?"

"Yes, sir."

"Where?"

"To the doctor."

"I see. And when was the last visit?"

When Jacob hesitated, David assumed he was wondering how truthful to be. He became a little more forceful in tone. "Out with it now, it's not a difficult question. A few days? Longer?"

"Longer."

"How long?"

"A…a month…I think."

Raising an eyebrow, as if contemplating this news, David slowly said, "Interesting. So I suppose he's suddenly been cured of whatever ails him. Tell me, does this doctor, perchance, wear a mask?"

Jacob's bulging brown eyes were answer enough. Satisfied, David smiled. "Thank you, you've been more than helpful. I will be calling upon you when I feel the need to take a drive."

"Sir, Mr. Wentworth, please! I can't help you. You have to talk to Henry. He…"

David cut off the lad's frantic ramblings, all feigned good will cast aside. "Do you enjoy working for my family, Jacob?" The young man nodded his assent, head bobbing jerkily. "Good. I trust your mother does also. I know she's worked in our kitchens for many years. Let me make myself very clear. This conversation stays between us, as well as anything I might ask you to do in future. If you cross me, not only will I dismiss you and your mother, I will make damned sure that neither one of you find work in this city again. Unless living in the street and begging for coin appeal to you, I suggest you follow my orders."

When no further protest was raised, David inclined his head in mock pleasantry. "Have a good night, Jacob."

He headed for the house, whistling.

* * *

A/N: I'm not sure what's happened with my beta, but I imagine real life has reared its ugly head. Therefore, I bring you yet another pre-beta chapter. It's much longer than I initially thought it would be, but I think you'll find it pleasing. Please let me know if you do (or don't!), as I still look forward to those reviews.

Thanks to all who reviewed the last chapter, even though it was terribly short. You're right, Mongie, it didn't serve to advance things much, but I still wanted to write it. Initially, I was going to combine it with this chapter, but it didn't fit the mood and timeline, so I posted it separately. As an added note, the mouse incident is based on a real life experience, though it thankfully didn't happen to me! Oh, and to OperaLover, for someone who didn't know what to say, I took great pleasure in your comment. Thanks!


	23. Ch 22: Threats And Demands

Exactly what had occurred that day remained a mystery to Melodie and she suspected she would never know for sure. Upon waking and finding her sight void of any speck of light, her mind had reeled in panic. Lying in bed, rubbing at her eyes with a frenzy, she kept telling herself she must yet be asleep and dreaming. But her dreams were always comprised of luminous colour, never stark blackness. Certain that her fate of complete blindness had finally befallen her, she leapt from the bed, stumbling over her own feet. Losing her sense of balance, she staggered about, arms outstretched, and her palms swept across the dresser. While vaguely aware of the hand mirror smashing to the floor, the sound reverberated in a distant corner of her mind. A scream began to build in the pit of her stomach, gaining strength as it coiled upwards into her throat. Although certain that an ear-splitting shriek was about to burst forth, the resounding wail exploded in her brain but never passed her lips. Her next memory was the lilting sound of Erik's voice in her ear, haunting and beautiful in tone. Seeing his dear face – even half hidden behind the mask – filled her with the most poignant relief of her entire life. She somehow felt as if she'd been granted a second chance – one that she couldn't afford to waste.

The wounds on Melodie's feet had taken the better part of a week to heal. During that time, she was trapped in her room, hobbling around with awkwardness. Lauralee and Erik took care of her, each in a different way: the former provided food to nourish her body, while the latter aided her with music to sustain her mind and sanity.

Melodie noticed the unspoken tension between her two caregivers. If Lauralee was in the room when Erik arrived, she beat a hasty retreat without even acknowledging him. Only when Melodie pressed him for the reason behind this odd behaviour did he reveal what had happened. He claimed not to regret his display of temper, but she was appalled and insisted that he apologize to Lauralee. Though he grumbled about overly sensitive females, he extended the apology.

They continued to work on the concerto in her room. While hindered by the lack of a piano, they were still able to make progress. Melodie was grateful for the time spent on composing. If she had been completely bedridden with nothing to do for days on end, she would have gone mad.

After the first week, Melodie was able to walk comfortably on her own, but only for short distances. She couldn't abide being without the piano any longer and insisted on working at Erik's home. Rather than hiring a carriage, he suggested she ride with him. Never having ridden a horse before, she balked at the idea. However, when he had the gall to teasingly ask if she was afraid, she accepted the proposal. As she stood at Midnight's side and contemplated the height of the stirrup – not to mention the overall height of the animal – she wondered about the wisdom of the act. She couldn't even get her foot in the stirrup. Her legs were too short, her skirts too cumbersome. Knowing that people milling about were watching with curiosity, she swatted Erik's hands away when he tried to lift her up. Instead, they walked past the last building in town and followed the dirt road until locating the perfect rock. Just over a foot high, it gave her the extra height to hoist herself up, though she still required Erik's help. Afraid she would be terribly off-balance sitting sidesaddle, she chose to sit astride the horse. Her fear of falling overrode the immodesty of her exposed calves. Once they had taken off with her arms about Erik's waist and her face pressed into his back, she had the most exhilarating sensation of flying. Physically being so close to the expert rider was an additional advantage that she would acknowledge to no one but herself.

Fully recovered after almost three weeks, she now found herself travelling down that same winding road but this time, on foot. A bag strapped across her shoulder contained her latest scribblings of the concerto. Her cane swung to and fro, aiding to keep her footing on the path without veering onto the grassy embankment. Happy to be mobile and independent once more, she strode quickly, enjoying the briskness of the air. Sunlight warmed her face in contrast to the cool breeze. Dry leaves crunched beneath her feet and she wished she could see the reds and golds of the trees in all their autumn glory. She imagined how the rays would filter between the leaves, infusing the brilliant colours with radiance.

There had been no further episodes of blackouts in her vision and for that, Melodie was grateful. Determined to appreciate every day that she awakened to light in her world, she also vowed to react with dignity whenever the darkness became permanent. Although thankful that Erik had found her when he did, she was horrified that he had briefly thought her to be dead. _Dead! _The complete loss of her vision would be difficult to bear, yes, but it would hardly signify the end of her existence. She wasn't about to wither up and die, like these leaves that had completed their life cycle and now scattered on the wind.

Knowing she would soon be reaching the vicinity of Erik's home, she held her arm aloft, waiting to feel the familiar grating of the iron fence. As the rough texture met her fingertips, she heard Sascha's ferocious barking from within the house. Although the sound was dim and muffled, it raised the hair on the back of her neck. The last time she had heard that savageness in the dog's bark had been in the presence of Peter's father. Something was terribly wrong.

Increasing her pace, she was almost at the gate when a voice called out to her.

"Miss Mellie! Wait!"

With a frown, she halted and turned to her left. "Jacob, is that you?"

"Yes. Sorry if I startled you."

The anxiety in his tone made her uneasy but she strove to sound calm. "That's all right. Is Henry inside?"

"N-no. It's Mr. Wentworth."

Her jaw dropping, she felt a chill slide down her spine. "_David? _You brought David here?" she cried. "Bloody hell!" Spinning around, she fumbled with the latch on the gate and flung it open.

"Please don't go in there, Miss Mellie!"

She ignored the plea, cursing again as she nearly tripped on the hem of her skirt. Dashing up the path, her mind raced with heated thoughts.

_If that bastard has hurt Erik, I'll…_

Well, she didn't know what, exactly, but she would make David very, very sorry. This time, she wouldn't hesitate to jab him in the eye with her cane.

Grasping the handle of the front door, she threw it open and barged inside.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

After more than a week of transporting Melodie to and from her home by horseback, Erik found himself a shade disappointed that she was well enough to walk the route by herself. His reaction was selfish, he knew, but he couldn't seem to help it. He didn't wish her prolonged discomfort, but he would miss the feel of her body, practically glued to his back, her hands squeezing against his stomach. Whenever he had asked if she was all right, her reply had always seemed breathless, as though she had been the one cantering down the road.

It made him smile, even now.

Lost in thought when the knock sounded at the door, he rose to his feet and took two steps before waking to reality. It couldn't be Melodie, as she would let herself in. Perhaps it was Peter.

Erik reached for his wig on the table. Once it was secured, he put on the mask and adjusted both items. The routine was such second nature, he had no need for a mirror. While he had ceased hiding behind these devices when he was alone or with Melodie, he wasn't about to expose himself to the unsuspecting lad. The rapping came again, louder and somehow more insistent. Opening the door, the sight of his unexpected visitor caused his gut to clench like a fist, but he regarded the man with no outward show of emotion.

David Wentworth returned his stare, his stance casual, as if he had not a care in the world. He wore no coat, attired in a simple white shirt, dark trousers and polished boots. Only his sheathed sword hinted that this was not a neighbourly visit.

Neither of them spoke for several seconds, their gazes unflinching.

David broke the silence first. "Surprised?"

Pulling the door open even wider, Erik made a sweeping gesture with his hand. "Won't you come in? I've been expecting you."

Taken aback by this tactic, the younger man's eyebrows knit together. He accepted the invitation by stepping through the doorway and his gaze wandered about. "Small but charming."

Erik shut the door and repositioned himself in front of his unwelcome guest. "Why don't we dispense with the pleasantries and get to the point, shall we? You're here for a reason."

"Very astute of you. I admire a man who gets down to business. However, are you not even curious as to how I located you?"

"No."

Faced with the blunt answer, David seemed on the verge of wry laughter. "You certainly know how to take the fun out of the element of surprise. Very well. Since you were expecting me, I assume your cousin informed you that we had an interesting conversation?"

Although Erik was more than capable of bluffing his way through this scenario, Henry had forewarned him of their 'familial connection' via a letter. While the note had also made it clear that he still did not approve of Erik, he'd felt it only fair to pass on this information. "Henry and I talked, yes."

"And?"

"And what?"

David cocked his head. "You truly are maddening, aren't you. What say you on Ramsey's first-hand account of the Opera Populaire's final performance? I hear it was quite the show. You literally brought the house down."

"Your friend has me mistaken for someone else."

"Really, Blythe, you disappoint me. Though you may choose to deny it, all it would take is the whispering of a well-placed rumour and before long, you'll find your career in ruins. The solution to avoiding all this trouble is simple. All it would take is ten thousand pounds."

Erik snorted with disdain. "I should have known this was about money. You can't even be original. Go ahead and start your whisperings. There's nothing like a scandal to sell tickets. I suspect the next performance will be a full house."

Unfortunately, Erik was not quite as confident as he sounded. If he did become linked to all that had happened in Paris, the consequences would be devastating. However, he wasn't about to bow to this outrageous blackmail.

Two years ago, he would have slit Wentworth's throat without any hesitation or remorse. It was a shame he wasn't that same man; it would have made the situation much more simple.

David was clearly surprised by Erik's nonchalance. "You seriously expect me to believe this cavalier attitude? That you care not for your reputation?"

"Believe what you wish."

The tense moment was interrupted by the appearance of Sascha, who had wandered from the kitchen. Naturally cautious of strangers, she eyed the visitor uneasily. "Down, Sascha," Erik said. The dog obeyed immediately, lying down with her head on her paws.

David's gaze flickered back to Erik. "Fine," he huffed. "We can play this game your way. It's a shame you'll be dragging others down with you, namely Henry and Melodie. And here I thought you cared for her, especially after the way you rushed to her defence." A smirk played around the corner of his lips, as the arrogance crept back into his tone. "If the threat of revealing your past doesn't concern you, perhaps I should threaten something or someone more dear to your heart."

It had been a long while since Erik had felt the throbbing pulse beneath his eye. He kept his control intact and spoke smoothly. "Since you so firmly believe that I caused the destruction of the Paris opera house, you really should take greater care. Did Ramsey also inform you of the many accidental deaths that occurred there? Rumour had it that all of the unfortunate victims were, in truth, murdered. From this day forward, I suggest you tread very carefully. Now, unless you actually have something of value to say, get the hell out of my house."

His mouth flattening to a compressed line, David took a step to the side, as if moving away. In the next instant, he lunged towards Erik, reaching for the mask. Though he was quick, he was no match for Erik's lightning reflex. In one fluid motion, Erik sidestepped the extended hand and clamped on to David's arm. Bending the appendage across the man's back, Erik yanked it upwards at a cruel angle. David howled with pain and outrage, sinking to his knees.

Sascha had started barking wildly the moment David had leapt forward. The torrent of sound echoed off the walls, setting Erik's teeth on edge. He bent down to growl in David's ear. "I ought to snap your arm like a twig for that."

Panting, his features contorted into a grimace, David managed to hiss, "Go on and do it! It will only prove I'm right. That you're a monster."

Sorely tempted, Erik applied more pressure to the arm. He had the pleasure of hearing David gasp, though he would have preferred a whimper.

When the front door flew open, the sight of Melodie barrelling into the room distracted Erik, and his hold slackened enough for David to wrench himself free.

"Erik!" she called out.

Standing upright once more, David raised a questioning eyebrow as he massaged his arm.

Before Melodie could attempt to rectify her blunder, Erik said, "My middle name. It's what I prefer."

"How sweet," David sneered.

Melodie glared in his direction. "What are you doing here, David?" she snapped.

"Just taking care of some business. What do you say, _Erik_? Why don't we finish this once and for all?"

His suggestion was vague, but the intent behind it became crystal clear when he caressed the hilt of the sword by his waist.

Erik smiled. "I accept your challenge. Mellie, stay here with Sascha. No, not that way," he said, as David headed for the nearest door. "Out back, through the kitchen. I'll be there momentarily."

Without a backward glance, David stalked towards the rear of the house.

"What's going on?" Melodie demanded. Unhooking the strap of her bag from her shoulder, she tossed it aside, along with her cane. "Are you fighting with him?"

"I've always found it difficult to back down from a challenge, especially when issued by weasels like Wentworth. Don't worry, I have no intention of killing him." Erik reasoned that his reassurance was not an outright lie. He had no specific intent to end the man's life. However, there was no predicting what could occur during what would surely be a heated battle.

Melodie made an exasperated sound. "I'm not worried about him, you fool. I care about _you_."

Amusement and tenderness curled Erik's lips. Brushing wayward strands of hair from her face, he said, "I assure you, I know how to handle myself. I'm an expert swordsman. A little rusty, perhaps…"

"_Erik!_"

He chuckled softly. "I'm teasing. I had an inkling this day might come, so I've spent quite some time re-honing my skills. You have nothing to fear, ma chère. I only ask that you not come outside, under any circumstance. Don't even go near the window. I don't need any distractions."

Looking stricken, she hurled herself forward and wrapped her arms around his neck. "Please be careful," she urged. "And remember, there is no honour in David. I'm sure that extends to the way he fights as well."

He returned her embrace, taking a revitalizing breath from the scent of her hair. When he pulled away at last, he considered which sword to use. He owned two of them – one was kept in a cabinet downstairs, the other in his room. The most logical choice would be the weapon of closest proximity, as it was also of slightly better quality. However, the sword upstairs had a more sentimental value to it; the last time he'd wielded it had been against Raoul, in the cemetery where Christine's father lay. The sting of that defeat had never left him. Today, he could regain some of that wounded pride.

In less than two minutes, Erik retrieved the sword and joined his opponent outside. David was pacing back and forth, his restless energy apparent in the way he carried himself. Physically, he resembled Raoul – the fair hair and skin tone, handsome facial features and slim build. From simply looking at him, one would guess he was quick and light on his feet. Erik was taller and possessed a heavier build, yet his outward appearance belied a cat-like agility. With the nearest tree being a good thirty paces away, the open field gave them a wide, unhindered space.

"Good of you to finally join me," David stated sarcastically. "I thought Melodie might have talked you out of it. Does she visit often?"

Erik sighed. "Your penchant for conversation is getting tiresome. Let's get on with it."

"I'm merely trying to understand the unique relationship the two of you seem to have. Something doesn't add up but I can't pinpoint it. I would almost guess that you're lovers but I can't imagine any woman wanting you that way. And despite the fact that Melodie has the sweetest lips and curves I've had the pleasure of sampling, I know she's too chaste to consider anything improper."

Erik's distaste for this man made him literally want to spit, but he held himself in check. "Your attempt to bait me is obvious, Wentworth. You seem to be stalling for time. Are you reconsidering…?"

The sentence was left unfinished when he found himself under attack. Only uncanny intuition and speed of reflex enabled him to block the thrust that sought his mid-section. Their swords clashed with a metallic ringing sound. As Erik inwardly berated himself for falling victim to the diversion, David stepped back and grinned.

When Erik had surprised Raoul at the cemetery, he had been the aggressor, striking at the younger man with relentless fury. Mindless rage had overtaken him, leaving no room for strategic thinking. That had been his downfall and somehow, he had to make certain it wouldn't happen again.

_Time to get serious._

Relaxing his body, Erik breathed deeply, clearing his mind of all distractions. His focus narrowed to encompass only David. Erik turned his right side to the enemy, standing with feet apart, balanced and poised to move. For several seconds, they eyed one other, each waiting for the other to act first.

David leapt forward, swinging his blade with deadly intent. Studying his opponent's movements, Erik kept his feet close to the ground, easily sliding out of the way. After dodging several slashes, he gained a perception on David's style – experienced, impatient, and generally quite good – but not good enough.

With clear irritation, David taunted, "Come on, Blythe. At least make this interesting for me. Or is running away your specialty?"

David lunged with a flurry of thrusts and feints. This time, Erik met him blow for blow, parrying expertly. Just for fun, he nicked David above the elbow. A bright, crimson stain soon marred the formerly pristine linen, like a rose bursting into bloom. Incensed at the sight of his own blood, David attacked again with increased speed and force. Erik held his ground, ignoring the aches that shot to his shoulder with each clash of their weapons. He feinted to the left and David fell for the trick, leaving himself vulnerable on the other side. Realizing his error, David began to turn away. He tried to parry the slash but Erik was too swift, striking with ruthless precision. The material of David's trousers flapped open, revealing a nasty gash on his leg. It dripped with blood.

Crying out, David staggered back. Erik took pity on him, though it was hardly deserved. "I could have easily killed you just now, but I didn't. Are you sure you want to continue?"

"Why don't you stop hiding behind that pathetic mask and show yourself as you really are?" David spat. "You're the same monster that destroyed the Paris opera house. Admit it! Did you really think Christine could ever love you? Oh yes, Ramsey told me the details of the sordid story and how she ripped off your mask for all the audience to see. Ramsey says, to look upon your face is to look upon the devil himself. Isn't that what Christine saw? The devil?"

_Did you really think Christine could ever love you?_

The question seemed to ricochet like a bullet through Erik's brain, ripping through any semblance of calm, rational thought. Breaking out into a cold sweat, he shivered.

_Isn't that what Christine saw? The devil?_

His grip on the sword tightened until his hands went numb, his breathing so shallow he might have been dead.

_The Devil's Child._

Blinking and shaking his head, he glanced up in time to see the figure bearing down on him. The flash of the blade streaked across his vision. Erik deflected the full force of the slash, but not before the tip grazed his side, just below the ribs. He didn't even feel it slicing into his flesh, and resumed the battle with renewed vigor. His self-control was slipping and in its place, a fiery hatred burned. Feelings buried long ago bubbled to the surface again. He didn't know if he was fighting David or Raoul – or if it even mattered.

Erik's weapon struck with intense force, driving his enemy backwards. David panted, his face twisted with exertion. When he lost his footing and fell upon one knee, Erik moved in for the kill, a surge of triumph coursing through his veins. Just before he delivered the fatal blow, a cloud of dirt was thrown in his face.

Choking, his eyes stinging, Erik barely managed to block an upward slash that would have lopped off his entire arm. Rather than losing an appendage, his forearm was cut. David scrambled upright and they crossed swords at the shoulder, standing toe-to-toe. They glared at each other.

_Mellie was right. No honour. Two can play at that game._

How interesting that a handful of dirt in the face had brought Erik crashing back to the reality of whom he was dealing with. As much as he had despised Raoul, the man had at least fought honourably.

They remained locked in place until David elbowed Erik in the chest and started to step back. Erik stuck out his foot and hooked around David's ankle, jerking the man right off his feet. Landing flat on his back, his arms splayed out but his right hand clung to the hilt of his weapon.

Erik brought his boot down on the wrist. "Let go of the sword," he said calmly.

"Go to hell!" David yelled.

As Erik pressed downward with increased pressure, a pained expression etched across the fallen man's features. "Oh, I'm sure I'll get there eventually but it won't be today. Did you know broken wrists take an eternity to heal? You can take my word for it or experience it yourself."

When the fingers unfurled, Erik kicked the weapon away. Before David could begin to rise, Erik aimed his sword at the man's throat. "Not yet. We need to talk first. It's ironic, really, that your cowardly dishonour actually saved your life. If you hadn't tossed that dirt, I would be speaking to a corpse right now, and a headless one at that. Don't look so shocked. Surely you noticed the angle of my sword's descent toward your neck? In any case, I've obviously changed my mind and decided to allow you to live. I don't need the stain of your death on my hands right now. However, I'm giving you fair warning. If you hurt Melodie in any way, as you have so unsubtly hinted, I will hunt you down and kill you. That is a promise. And just to give you something to remember me by…"

With deliberate slowness, Erik used the tip of his sword to pierce David's throat. Blood welled and then dribbled down, running into the collar of his shirt. Drawing the tip horizontally, Erik inflicted a wound about two inches long. He made it deep enough to leave a scar but avoided the major artery. Every time David looked at himself in the mirror, he would see the welt. Satisfied, Erik backed away. "Get up," he ordered.

David rose to his feet, his eyes burning with resentment. One had to peer closely, but Erik saw the flicker of wariness as well. He could only assume that his warning had been taken seriously. As David's gaze slid to the weapon nestled in the grass, Erik walked over to retrieve it. Throwing it to the owner, he said, "Now, get off my property. If you ever dare to return, you'll learn how I deal with trespassers."

Catching the sword by the hilt, David sheathed it and pivoted around. Erik followed him past the side of the house to the waiting carriage. If the driver was startled by the condition of the men that emerged into view, he wisely showed no expression as he climbed down and opened the door. After David was seated inside the cab, the young man hoisted himself up top and flicked the reins.

Erik watched as the carriage gained speed and made its way up the hill, dust billowing in its wake. Once it disappeared from sight, he turned toward the house with shoulders slumped, pain and fatigue screaming from every muscle. Though he would have preferred lying down right where he stood, the thought of the woman waiting inside made him trudge forward. His mind felt as battered as his body. When David had mentioned Christine…

_Merde! Will you ever stop thinking about Christine, you bloody fool!_

He thought he was free of her. Why did she continue to haunt and torment him?

Realizing he was at the house, he exhaled a weary breath and opened the door.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Melodie had passed the time by circling the confines of the room, restlessly wandering from the piano to the chair and then to the couch. Sascha had long grown tired of the strange behaviour and escaped to her corner in the kitchen.

Occasionally, Melodie could hear a raised voice or the clang of metal upon metal. As she paced, she alternated between twisting her fingers together and digging her nails into her palms.

It took a while to realize the fact that it had now become silent. Her fear and uncertainty rose to new heights as she wondered what this meant. The creak of the front door surprised her. She began to rush forward, but a chilling thought made her halt.

_What if it's David?_

"Mellie…"

Flooded with instant relief at the sound of Erik's voice, she banged into the table in her haste to reach him. She chanted his name over and over, throwing herself into his arms. At the sound of metal striking the stone floor, she knew he had dropped his sword. Pulling back, she ran her hands along his chest.

"Are you hurt?" she asked. Even as the words left her mouth, she found a tear in his shirt. A slick wetness coated her fingertips and she gasped. "You're bleeding!"

"It's just a scratch."

"You should sit down. Where else are you hurt?"

"It's nothing."

"Erik…"

Her admonishment was left unspoken when his mouth came down hard upon hers, rendering her speechless in the most literal and figurative sense. She was so stunned, she didn't react at first, remaining limp in his embrace. One of his hands tangled in her hair at the nape of her neck. His other arm encircled her waist, pulling her in so tightly she could barely breathe – or perhaps that was the effect of the kiss.

Her heart began an erratic pounding of excitement and the sound of her own moan surprised her. Winding an arm around his neck, her fingers dug into his wig and she wished she could feel his own hair. As if reading her mind, her mouth was released and she saw the flash of his hand removing mask and wig in one motion. Once his lips met hers again, the force of the kiss changed to one of teasing gentleness, coaxing her mouth to part. Her bones seemed to melt as she leaned into him, heat and desire coiling from the pit of her stomach.

When he finally drew back, she had to collect her scattered thoughts. "Well, that was most unexpected," she murmured.

"I couldn't seem to help myself."

Though he spoke gravely, she could hear the hint of humour in his tone. She pressed her forehead to his chest, hiding a smile. "We still need to attend to your wounds. Sit down and I'll fetch something for bandages." Wriggling out of his embrace, she was stopped by his hand on her shoulder.

"Wait. We have to talk about Wentworth."

"Is he dead?" she asked flatly.

"No. I had the opportunity but…I couldn't do it."

She didn't know whether to be sorry or relieved. "Then you're the better man."

Erik's hand continued to grip her shoulder, the hold almost hurtful. "Mellie, listen to me. You must move back with me."

"What? Why?"

"He's threatened to hurt you. I've warned him against it but I don't know if it's enough to dissuade him."

"He's threatened me before. I'm not afraid of him. Well, at least not so afraid that I'll allow him to run me out of my own home."

"This is different," Erik insisted. "He'll use you to get to me. Don't make the error of underestimating him. He's more dangerous than you may think."

Frowning, she remained stubborn. "I like living in town. I like my independence. I won't give it up because of him. Besides, he doesn't know where I live."

"He knows there wasn't a carriage waiting for you. He can easily deduce that you walked here and eventually, he'll find out where you are."

Though part of her didn't think David would go to that much trouble, she couldn't be certain. Erik continued on, switching his tactic. "Was living here so terrible?"

"Of course not. But it wasn't proper. I know it was my idea but I was so desperate for your help on the symphony, I would have sold my soul to get it. The situation is different now. I have no excuse to reside here."

"Your life isn't enough of an excuse?"

She hesitated, but obstinacy ultimately prevailed. "I won't do it."

"_Goddamnit!_" Erik roared, making her flinch. Her other shoulder was captured and she found herself hauled forward to face his fury, trapped by his piercing gaze. "Stop being so damned stubborn! Do you have any idea what it would do to me if he hurt you? I'm not going to lose you, Christine!"

The shouted name seemed to hang in the air, suspended and frozen in place between them. She would have believed she imagined it if she didn't see the horror in his eyes.

Swift anger cut through her, followed by a pain that squeezed her heart with such unbearable hurt, she thought it might stop beating. Her voice shook. "Do you still love her?"

His eyes closed and he dropped from sight. She felt a tugging on her skirt and realized he had kneeled down on the floor, just as he had that night of his confession.

"I don't know what's wrong with me," he groaned. "Something about Wentworth reminded me of Raoul and I was plunged into the past again. Forgive me. I would rather cut out my tongue than hurt you."

Reaching down, she found the top of his head and stroked his hair. "It's all right," she said sadly. "I understand if you still love her."

"But I don't," he said, his tone suddenly vehement. "It's you, Mellie. It's you that I love."

Her hand stilled as her mouth fell open. "What did you say?" she whispered.

"I…"

His voice faded into nothingness after that singular word, as if he'd been shocked into silence. She sank down to her knees, joining him on the floor. Cradling his cheek in one hand, she angled her head until his face came into focus. "I love you too," she said simply.

His expressive eyes reflected a shift of emotions, from disbelief to pure wonder. "Mellie," he breathed, his voice husky.

"Erik, just tell me one thing. Who do you see when you look at me?"

Taking her hand, he kissed her palm. "You. I see only you. Je t'aime."

Tears blinding her vision, she buried her face against his neck. They rocked in each other's arms, neither one wanting to be the first to let the other go.

* * *

A/N: First, a huge thank you to my "unofficial" beta, who is simply amazing. This chapter would not be half as good without her help. Yes, it's been too long since the last update, I know. I was away on vacation, am starting a new job, blah blah blah. Also, technically, this was a difficult chapter to write.

Terpsichore: The only basis for Mellie's blindness is the blurred, distorted vision. There are varying degrees of blindness – that is based on fact. I am not basing this on any disease.

Dreamer: You're not being obnoxious at all. But unfortunately, I'm not too fond of any of the alternate endearments you suggested. Never hesitate to chip in your two cents, though!

OperaLover: I'm hoping this chapter helps answer your questions. If not, feel free to email me.

Hikari: Thanks for your comments. I discussed them with my beta but decided to leave the lines as is. But please, if anything ever catches your attention, I want to know about it.

Thanks to all for their reviews. I'll be interested to know what you think of this chapter. The final scene was NOT in my original outline. I guess Mellie and Erik are just speaking for themselves now :-) I'm just the humble author. I hope you enjoyed it.


	24. Ch 23: Midnight Oil

Erik had been completely caught by surprise by his open declaration of love for Melodie. He hadn't planned it. It wasn't even something he had admitted to himself. He had blurted out the words without thinking and frankly, after having faced Christine's rejection, he'd never thought those sentiments would fall from his lips again.

While the spoken admission should have been monumental enough to change everything, his routine with Melodie did not alter. They did not discuss things any further, yet each time he looked at her, he was consumed by passionate longing. Sometimes he gave in to his urges and kissed her but for the most part, he was determined to be the gentleman. With the deadline looming, it helped to focus on the concerto.

Melodie continued to reside on her own, unwilling to allow David to scare her away. Concerned for her safety, Erik was displeased with the arrangement. He insisted on taking her to and from her home on horseback again. It was faster than walking and gave them an advantage, should Wentworth happen to reappear. The man had been thoroughly humiliated and Erik was certain that he would be plotting his revenge. Erik kept his Punjab lasso with him whenever he ventured out, discreetly coiled within an inner pocket of his cloak.

The glow of hearing Melodie echo his words of love remained even now. He was filled with contentment and joy, yet a part of him couldn't help wondering how she could look upon his face and still love him. Months ago, when he had first unburdened his soul to her, she had not fled in fear. Her acceptance and love, despite his murderous past, still astounded him.

When plagued with these doubts, he only had to take her in his arms and kiss her. She never failed to return his kisses, her mouth responding with ardour. Her breathy sighs mingled with his and in the limpid, brown depths of her eyes, he could see the love shining back at him. Though he questioned whether he deserved such devotion, he grabbed it with both hands, in awe of this priceless gift. And like a spoiled child, he held it with fierce possessiveness, for she was his and his alone.

Tomorrow, they would submit the concerto to the managers. The score was complete and the last two days had been spent polishing it to perfection. Even now, well approaching midnight, Melodie was hunched at the piano, reworking yet another section.

Erik sat at the adjacent table, cradling his head in one hand and gripping the quill with the other. He looked up when she spoke.

"I'm still not confident about this contrasting theme. Perhaps we should try it in a minor key."

"We already did," he reminded her.

Her brow furrowed. "No, that was the next theme."

"We tried it with this one too." Rising to his feet, he stretched out his arms, wincing at the soreness of his muscles. He came behind Melodie and placed one hand on either side of her neck, kneading its base in a circular motion with his thumbs. She hung her head forward with a low moan of approval. Chuckling, he bent close to her ear and said, "Leave it. If there are any adjustments to make, we'll do it during rehearsals."

"You're right," she mumbled. "Don't stop. That feels wonderful."

Erik obliged by continuing his ministrations. "So, what do you plan on wearing?" he asked, trying to keep his tone conversational.

She replied without hesitation. "The blue gown."

"That won't do," he admonished. "You can't wear the same dress twice in succession."

"The yellow one, then. It's really of no import. And I forbid you from buying me another dress. You've given me far too many gifts."

Rather frustrated that she had caught on to his thinking, he inwardly cringed at the thought of that unsightly, frilly concoction of a gown. He would have to come up with an alternative plan.

His hands had moved farther apart to massage her shoulders. She reached around to take hold of his fingers, squeezing gently. "Thank you. I should go."

"Why don't you stay?" he suggested. "Your room is unaltered."

Viewing her face in profile, he could see she was tempted but after a few seconds, she shook her head. "No, I'd better not. I'm sorry to make you go out so late. I know you're tired."

He didn't realize he was holding his breath until it escaped as an almost inaudible sigh. Brushing aside his disappointment, he dropped a kiss on the top of her head. "It doesn't matter. Gather your things together and I'll ready Midnight."

Once he'd slipped on his cloak, checking that his lasso was in place, he stepped out the back door. The air was damp and cold, making him shiver involuntarily. While he still felt most comfortable in the darkness of night, he didn't look forward to the coming of winter.

Erik supposed there was only one way to end this shuffling back and forth between homes. He simply had to ensure the timing was right.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

As David reached up to take hold of the knocker again, the door was pulled open just a few inches. He ignored the frowning look of disapproval on the old butler's face.

"I'm here to see Ramsey," David said.

The butler's tone was as frosty as the outside air. "It's terribly late. I'm afraid Mr. Farr has already retired for the night."

"It's all right George. Who is it?"

Recognizing the voice of his friend, David glared at the elderly man and shouldered past him. Ramsey stood in the hallway, attired in a checkered robe and slippers, and regarded him with surprise. "David, is something wrong?"

"Hell, yes."

Without even waiting for an invitation, David veered to the right and headed for the drawing room. He strode like a man with a sense of purpose and zeroed in on the crystal decanter of brandy. Only after pouring a generous portion and downing it in several long gulps did he turn around. Ramsey had seated himself on the paisley chaise lounge, his expression bemused.

"Forgive my rudeness. Would you like a drink?" David offered, as he tore off his coat and threw it aside.

"No, thank you. But feel free to indulge."

"Don't mind if I do." With a full glass of soothing amber liquid in hand once more, he began to pace the thick carpet. "Well, he's gone and done it. I never thought it would actually happen."

"Dare I ask what you're talking about?"

"My father. He's cut me off."

"Oh."

"Yes, _oh. _In all your barrister wisdom, is that all you can say?"

Ramsey sighed. "This has been brewing for a long time. You can't honestly tell me that you're shocked."

"Of course I'm shocked," David shot back. "I just told you I never expected him to actually do it. I'm his son. He cares more about that little chit than his own flesh and blood."

"Who?"

"Melodie!" David spat out the name and took another long swallow of brandy, relishing the burn down his throat. "He tells me how much of a disappointment I am to him and then has the gall to compare me to a servant girl. I don't care how successful she's become, riding on the coattails of that deformed devil. I've heard it all my life, even as a child. Father always had a soft spot for her. Stop looking at me like that. I realize how pathetic I sound but it makes me bloody furious."

"Sit down, David. You're wearing out my carpet."

Feeling a sudden, overwhelming weariness, David heeded his friend's advice and sank down on a chair. He tossed his head and finished the last drop of alcohol, his fingers already itching for another glass. His thirst seemed to have no boundaries tonight. "I'm going to lose her, you know. Olivia."

Ramsey shifted position, almost looking uncomfortable. "Olivia cares about you."

"Not enough to stand by me when I haven't a cent to my name. You know as well as I do how fickle she is."

"I thought you weren't keen on marriage yet anyway."

"That's beside the point."

A trace of impatience edged into Ramsey's voice. "I don't know what to tell you except what I've been saying for years. Just give your father's company a try or find some other occupation. Maybe it's time to grow up."

David set down his glass before he succumbed to his urge for more liquid sustenance. "I wouldn't have to if Blythe hadn't called my bluff."

"Since you were intending to expose his past regardless, I would hardly call it a bluff."

"Yes, but _he_ didn't know that." Rubbing at his temple, David closed his eyes briefly. "In any case, it's too late to appease my father now. I'll never be able to please him, even if I did attempt the business."

"You don't know that."

"Apparently, you don't know my father," David responded dryly. "Since Blythe is being uncooperative and he needs a taste of his own humiliation, I've come up with a plan. I need your help."

Ramsey grimaced, his face reflecting wariness at that statement. "What scheme are you involving me with now?"

"Blythe is having another concert at the Skylon next month. I want to prepare a little surprise for him onstage."

"What makes you think he'll be there? He's a recluse."

The question caused David to cast his mind back to the night of the party at Colin Grayson's home, many months ago. It had been the first time he'd seen Melodie since she moved out and his first glimpse of a mysterious masked figure, bolting away on horseback. Though it had taken a while to make the connection between that mystery man and Michael Blythe, David knew now they were one and the same. He assumed that like most artists, Blythe must possess an enormous ego, to the point of lurking in the shadows to hear his own music being performed. "Trust me. He'll be there," he said confidently.

Narrowing his eyes, Ramsey stared at him, as if trying to deduce the unspoken plan. "You're playing with fire. The man is dangerous. You've got the scar to prove it."

David flushed with embarrassment. The wound had scabbed over and healed cleanly, but his insides still festered with the desire for revenge. And although high collared shirts hid the puckered line of skin from the view of others, he knew it was there. "Are you willing to help me or not?" he asked, his tone belligerent.

Ramsey glanced towards the ceiling before settling his gaze on him once more. "I'll probably live to regret this but I'll admit to being curious. What is your grand plan?"

Allowing himself the smallest of smiles, David leaned forward and began to outline what he had devised for the unsuspecting composer and his lovely assistant.

* * *

A/N: Well, dear readers, I apologize for the delay and the fact that this chapter was another short, transitional one. But as you can probably guess, the action will start to heat up again soon. My job stresses have reduced somewhat but I still won't be updating as frequently as I did before. I hope to keep it around 2 weeks at a time. I now have two betas, so thanks to penkitten and another who's asked to remain anonymous.

Thanks so much for sticking with me and you know I love to get those reviews:-)


	25. Ch 24: The Limelight

The next few weeks swept by Melodie like a whirlwind. She and Erik spent their days at the Skylon, working closely with the conductor and the orchestra during the rehearsals. It pleased her to see everyone treating Erik with utmost respect. While he never spoke of his feelings on the matter, she knew it must mean a great deal to him. He no longer had to shut himself in and hide from the world.

When he had the opportunity, Henry sometimes joined them, sitting quietly on the sidelines and watching the proceedings with keen interest. He had not seen Erik in some time and their initial greeting was fraught with polite tension. However, by the third week, they seemed to have reached some understanding and regained a degree of their former ease with each other.

The morning of the concert was ushered in with a grey, cold dreariness that was typical for November, but an unexpected burst of sunshine arrived at her doorstep in the form of a wrapped parcel. Nestled inside the box beneath a layer of tissue paper was her buttery yellow gown. Erik had kindly made arrangements to have it freshly washed for her. Only after gathering it up did she notice the dress looked different. Just to be certain, she laid it atop her bed and ran her palms over the silky surface. Her hands told her what her eyes were unsure of – Erik had somehow managed to alter the dress. It was now a sleeker style, with some ruffles remaining on the neckline and hem but otherwise, a more mature reincarnation. After trying it on, she found herself even more delighted by the comfortable fit. It had previously been much too tight around the chest, making it rather difficult to breathe. She was touched by the thoughtfulness of the gift, of course, but it also made her aware of the imbalance in the scales; he had showered her with so many generosities and she had given nothing in return.

That reflection troubled her now as they sat in the carriage, on their way to the theatre. They had not spoken since leaving town, apparently lost in their own separate thoughts. Nudging more closely to his side, she tilted her head against his shoulder.

His voice rumbled from above. "Are you cold?"

"No. Thank you again for the gown."

"And again, it was my pleasure." Several beats of silence passed before he spoke again. "Something is bothering you. What is it?"

His perceptiveness almost made her blush. While she wished to deny it, it would have been useless to do so. "You'll think it foolish, I know, yet I can't help feeling ashamed. You've given me so much and I've done nothing for you."

"Nothing?"

The single word was coloured with incredulity as her chin was grasped between his fingers. Erik brought his head down until his face filled her vision, his gaze boring into hers. "You've given me the opportunity to write music again and collaborating with you has been…" He paused, searching for just the right phrase. "It's been like a dream. A beautiful dream. And what of your love and acceptance of a man who never thought he'd find those things in any human being, let alone a warm and wonderful woman? These are gifts that were once beyond my comprehension, but you have made them a reality for me. It's far from 'nothing', ma chère. It's everything."

An enormous lump swelled in her throat, making speech impossible. The constriction across her chest could not be blamed on her corset or dress – she was physically ballooned by love and happiness, leaving herself wondering if it was possible to literally burst with emotion. Twisting around, half-tangled by her cloak, she pressed her face to his chest and embraced him, lulled by the steady beat of his heart.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Henry made the rounds backstage, chatting with some of the young orchestra members. The air vibrated with excitement as they bustled about, tuning their instruments. Sounds of human voices intermingled with their musical counterparts, creating a unique, dissonant symphony.

One of the managers, James Wallace, caught his eye as he maneuvered through the crowd. Though it was a chilly night, the press of bodies in the confines of the hallways created a heated stuffiness. Wallace patted at his brow with a handkerchief, his ruddy skin glistening with a sheen of perspiration.

"Henry, I'm very glad you could come," the rotund man stated.

Henry shook his hand, saying, "I wouldn't miss it."

"Unfortunately, I have some rather embarrassing news to extend. There's been some kind of miscalculation with tickets and Craig is at the box office right now trying to sort out this mess, but it seems we've oversold the seats. The bottom line is that you currently don't have one, so we were thinking of setting you up on a comfortable chair off to the side. I'm so sorry. I hope that's not overly objectionable."

Wallace had rushed through the entire speech in almost one breath and now looked close to fainting, blotting at his forehead again. Taking pity on the man, Henry responded with graciousness. "I think the aisles might be too narrow for that. I wouldn't want to pose a danger to the patrons. Why don't I sit on stage in one of the wings? I'll still be able to see and hear perfectly well."

The manager seemed visibly relieved, his hunched shoulders relaxing. "Are you quite sure? I do feel badly about this."

Henry assured him that the arrangement was fine and after another apology, Wallace went on his way to deal with other matters. Within minutes, Henry was approached again, this time by a beaming Melodie. At her side, as he always seemed to be as of late, was Erik. He appeared elegant and imposing as usual, though oddly ill at ease. His mouth set in a grim line, his eyes darted about as if in search of someone and he excused himself for a moment.

Henry had been so occupied with studying Erik, he hadn't heard Melodie's inquiry. "Sorry, what did you ask?"

"I wanted to speak with the maestro once more. Have you seen him?"

"No, I haven't."

Finally taking the time to truly look at her, Henry observed that she was positively glowing; a healthy flush adorned her cheeks and her eyes sparkled with vivacity. Although it shamed him to feel it, his stomach knotted, making him grimace briefly. In all the years that he'd had Melodie to himself, she had seemed content. Only now did he realize that something had been missing, as if he had been the one too blind to see. She had never exuded such vibrancy, such utter joy for life – not until Erik had entered her world. Despite his serious misgivings about Erik's past, he had to grudgingly admit that the man's treatment of Melodie had been nothing but honourable. "I've never seen you look so happy," he commented.

She nodded, hesitated, and then stepped closer to him. "I have something to confess to you. You were right all along. I'm in love with Erik. It's just taken me a long time to realize it. I know you don't approve of him but I hope that one day, you'll understand."

Sighing, Henry kissed her cheek. "I understand, more than you know. Whom we fall in love with is not a choice."

"He's a good man. When you come to know him better, you'll learn to see him as I do. I'm sure of it."

They talked for a few minutes more until Erik reappeared. Melodie began to remove her cloak and asked, "Henry, would you mind locating the maestro for me?"

"Certainly."

Erik interjected before Henry had a chance to move. "Before you do so, if I might have a word with you in private."

Melodie quirked an eyebrow, looking mildly surprised by the request, but she didn't question it. "You two go on, then. I'll wait here."

Filled with his own curiosity, Henry weaved his way past the throng to find a more secluded area. It was dimly lit here, casting a shadow over the left side of Erik's face. In contrast, his white mask seemed to magically hover in place, one bright green eye staring from within.

"I believe I can guess your concern," Henry stated.

"Oh?"

"You're worried that David might cause trouble again. I've already spoken with both Mr. Wallace and Mr. Rosenberg. They've warned the staff not to admit him."

Within the singular gleaming orb, Henry could read the flare of disgust. Next to Melodie, Erik had the most expressive eyes that Henry had ever seen.

"If Wentworth wants to find a way in, I'm sure he'll manage," Erik growled. His tone softened with his next words. "However, for once, he's not the focus of my thoughts this evening. It's Melodie. I need to ask something of you and I'm afraid you won't be pleased."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The scene at the entrance of the theatre was one of chaotic uproar. Patrons crowded around the box office window, demanding to be let in. Dressed in an array of colourful silks and taffetas, their jewels glinting with pinpoints of light, the ladies stood to one side, chattering amongst themselves. Their gentleman companions, in a sea of black dresscoats, argued with the rattled staff, their voices gaining volume as each second ticked by.

David took in the commotion with some measure of amusement, trying to remain obscure in its midst. He could see Craig Rosenberg from behind the glass, gesticulating frantically to one harried-looking young man who appeared to want nothing more than to crawl beneath his chair. Since Rosenberg would no doubt recognize him from the last event at the theatre, David hoped to remain out of his view.

"This is completely ridiculous," huffed an elderly man. He slapped on his hat and took the arm of the woman beside him. "Let's go, Victoria."

The woman refused to budge, standing her ground, her wrinkled face pinched with disappointment. "But I want to see him," she whined. "I've heard he's mysteriously dashing and handsome with that mask."

"Oh, for God's sakes!"

David couldn't help rolling his eyes and he watched the other man do the same. Feeling a jab in the arm, he glanced over to see Ramsey chuckling under his breath.

"Are you sure about this plan, David? You'll be breaking the hearts of women across the whole theatre. Do you want that on your conscience?"

Ignoring his friend, he looked down to consult his pocket watch and instead, found a pair of tickets thrust into his view. He lifted his head to find the exasperated man before him with tickets in hand. "Here," he said curtly, practically shoving them into David's palm. "Perhaps they'll be useful to you."

"But I already have a…"

"Take them anyway. We're done here. Victoria!" he barked, marching away. With a rustle of her skirts, she had no choice but to follow with hurried steps.

A moment later, the central door to the theatre opened and Rosenberg emerged, holding up both arms for attention. "Ladies and gentlemen, please accept my profuse apology for the delay. If you could please check your tickets carefully. In the upper right hand corner, you'll find a small box with a number inscribed. If it is anything other than a 'zero' or a 'one', we cannot admit you this evening. We will, however, allow you to exchange your ticket for any other showing this season. Those with the numbers of 'zero' or 'one', please come forward. We will open all the doors now."

As if on cue, the surrounding doors were flung open and most people clamoured forth while others turned away, muttering and shaking their heads. Rosenberg practically disappeared from view, engulfed by the crowd.

"Looks like we're out of luck," Ramsey said, inspecting his ticket. "Unless…"

His voice trailed off as David held up his newly acquired tickets, sporting a clearly marked number in the corner.

David grinned.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Arm in arm, Erik walked along the plush carpet and led Melodie to their seats in the front row. His gaze flickered over the heads of the audience as they whispered in hushed tones, the occasional laughter ringing out. He could feel an almost tangible sense of anticipation. Erik assisted Melodie first, then draped his cloak along the back of his seat before sitting down.

As if aware of what he was doing, she asked, "Wouldn't you be more comfortable with your cloak backstage?"

He had not told her of the lasso tucked inside. "It's very dear to me, custom-made by the finest tailors in Paris. I would rather keep it close. I'm more concerned with where Henry is seated. He should be here with us."

Melodie waved a hand in a dismissive gesture. "He doesn't mind. He says it reminds him of when we used to sit in the rafters, except he doesn't have to worry about the height. He liked the privacy of it, but not the distance to the floor below."

The start of the performance had already been delayed and the patrons were getting restless. At last, the members of the orchestra and the conductor filed onto the stage to a round of polite applause. First on the programme was a short, lyrical piece by Saint-Saëns. After that, the violin soloist emerged to perform the concerto.

Erik shifted in his seat, his eyes narrowing as he regarded the young man. He was interesting to look at – tall and gangly, with crookedly imperfect features. Most curious of all were his eyes, a pale icy blue and hair that was so blonde, it was almost white. Unfortunately, Erik found his musical sensibility to be less than desirable. His technique was proficient but he lacked the sensitivity to fully bring all of the rich romanticism of the concerto to life. If the managers had permitted it, Erik would have played the piece himself. Since that hadn't been an option, he had no choice but to endure what would no doubt be a lacklustre performance.

Feeling a pressure on his arm, Erik glanced down at Melodie.

"Promise me you'll just try to enjoy this and not be overly critical," she whispered.

She was well aware of his opinion on the violinist. With a grumble, he said, "I'll try."

He leaned back, settling more deeply into the chair. Whether it was the performance or other thoughts that occupied his mind, he found himself distracted until about midway through. Finally forcing himself to pay attention, he noted Melodie's head resting against his shoulder. Her eyes were closed and a peaceful smile graced her lips. If one didn't know better, she seemed to be asleep. He knew she was awake and simply enjoying the music. Closing his own eyes, he exhaled a breath and relaxed, attempting to do the same. By the last movement, he was able to ignore his analytical side and take pleasure in the notes that he and Melodie had created.

When the burst of applause erupted from all around, Erik's eyes snapped open. Rosenberg, who had been sitting beside Melodie, made his way up the side stairs and stood at centre stage. He introduced the soloist, who took several deep bows.

"And now, ladies and gentlemen," Rosenberg continued, "it gives me great pleasure to welcome the composer himself to the stage, Mr. Michael Blythe."

Fresh applause filled the theatre once more as Erik rose to his feet. Swallowing hard, a strange light-headedness almost overtook him, making him sway slightly off-balance. He reached for Melodie's hand and urged her to stand.

"This is your moment," she protested.

"Our moment," he corrected her. "And you're coming with me."

Leaving her cane, she linked her arm through his and allowed him to lead her onstage to join Rosenberg's side. Erik blinked as he faced the masses, still clapping with thunderous enthusiasm. He remained enveloped in a queer dream-like state. Though he had the urge to pinch himself, he refrained. If this was a dream, he didn't wish to waken.

Movement at the corner of Erik's eye caught his attention and with a sharp stab to the gut, he was plunged back into reality.

David was climbing up the stairs and approaching fast.

Noticing the intruder, Rosenberg hissed out of the side of his mouth, "Excuse me, but I'll have to ask you to leave the stage. Please return to your seat, sir."

Disregarding the manager, David raised his hands and faced the audience. "Ladies and gentlemen, if I could have your attention."

Scowling, Rosenberg's eyebrows shot up as recognition set in. "Wait, I know you…" His words were overridden as David once again asked for quiet.

Melodie's hand tightened around Erik's arm, the grip almost painful. "Is that David?" she asked, her voice tinged with disbelief and anger.

Erik said nothing, holding himself stiffly and grinding his teeth. Perhaps it was a blessing that his lasso was out of reach. No matter how much the patrons enjoyed the concerto, he didn't guess they would empathize with his desire to garrotte Wentworth's elegant neck. Silence descended on the theatre as everyone became aware that something unusual was happening.

David spoke loudly, ensuring his voice could be heard from every corner. "I feel it is my duty to inform you all that this man, Michael Blythe, is running from his past. Do you not wonder what lies behind his mask?" He flung out his arm and pointed downstage. "Many of you know my good friend, Ramsey Farr."

Erik looked to his left, recognizing the man that strode forth from the other end of the stage. Ramsey's gaze met his briefly and then settled back on David, who continued with his speech. "Two years ago, Ramsey was in Paris and attended the Opera Populaire. A man came onstage – a masked man. He had already committed terrible crimes. Kidnapping. Murder. On the stage of the opera house, he was unmasked, revealing a hideously deformed face. Ramsey can attest to it. But before he could be captured, he set fire to the theatre, destroying it completely. Countless people perished, trampled or burned to death. He fled Paris, escaped to London. And that madman, that monster, stands before us now. Michael Blythe."

Unsettled murmurings swept through the audience and David bellowed over top of them in order to be heard. Swinging around, he turned to face Erik. "What have you to say against these charges, Blythe?"

Erik stared at his foe but the capability of speech seemed to have deserted him. He was trapped. And David knew it.

David smirked in his direction. "If you're innocent, you won't object to the removal of your mask."

Though he immediately regretted it, Erik took an involuntary step backwards. Feeling a tug at his arm, he looked down at Melodie, almost having forgotten that she was here. She appeared pale and stricken, biting down on her lower lip. Acting on instinct, Erik thrust her towards Rosenberg, ignoring the fact that the manager was immobilized by shock.

"Take care of her," Erik muttered. He couldn't seem to think, his brain foggy from the swelling tide of despair. If he refused to take off his mask, it would be a damning admission of guilt. His life here would be over.

But he couldn't do it. He couldn't relive that exposure again.

When Erik spoke, his words rang clear and strong. "The reason for my mask is my own affair and no one else's. While I'm sure Mr. Farr was a witness to those events at the Opera Populaire, it wasn't me. I'm afraid you're trying to condemn the wrong man."

"Then prove it!" David shouted, as he unsheathed and brandished his sword. Several women screamed and more alarmed outcries echoed about. "Remove your mask or I will do it for you."

Erik tried to use David's own antics against him. "I don't feel the need to prove anything. You're the one waving your sword in a public forum against an unarmed man. Which one of us is acting like a madman?"

David's face was flushed with redness, his features twisted by obvious frustration. With a sudden cry of rage, he sprang forward. Erik braced himself against the impact but was thrown backwards. Orchestra members cried out and scrambled to get out of the way. With each hand blocking David's arms, Erik tried to hold him at bay. They twirled about in a deadly parody of a waltz, crashing against chairs and music stands.

Somehow managing to wrest one hand free, David clawed towards the mask. Erik threw his head back, avoiding the grasp. They spun around again in a clumsy pirouette.

It took several seconds for Erik to register the increased intensity of screaming that seemed to fill the entire theatre. Turning his head, his eyes widened with horror. Hungry golden flames were consuming the red velvet curtain, spreading higher and higher. During their struggle, a gas lamp must have been knocked against the fabric, instantly igniting it.

Even David's grip had slackened as he took in the view. Erik seized the opportunity, backhanding him across the face and sending him reeling. Without glancing behind him, Erik raced forward and grabbed the curtain. He yanked and pulled at it, desperate to bring it down before the flames reached the ceiling. Visions of the smouldering ruins of the Opera Populaire tormented him. He couldn't allow the same tragedy to occur here.

Black smoke billowed outward, sending him into spasms of choked coughing. The radiating heat was incredibly intense and his eyes watered, blurring his vision. Despite his furious efforts, the curtain failed to release its hold. Refusing to be defeated, he increased his tenacious grip, bearing down with all his strength. When he felt a presence at his side, he thought it was his imagination until he turned his head.

It was Ramsey.

The man took hold of the drapery and with their combined efforts, it finally ripped and came tumbling to the floor. Ramsey stomped across it with his feet. Erik used both his feet and his hands to roll the fabric in on itself, trying to smother the flames. Realizing that Erik was having more success, Ramsey stooped to copy the technique.

When the fire was extinguished at last, both men were heaving for breath. Their eyes met yet neither of them said a word, their expressions mutually unreadable. Erik broke the contact first, turning to examine what was left of the stage behind him. Everyone had disappeared, no doubt fleeing to avoid what could have been a catastrophe. The floor was covered with scattered sheets of music and overturned chairs.

Erik heard a groan from the far side of the stage. Heading towards the sound, he found Rosenberg rising to his feet, clutching at a chair for support.

Concern made his voice sharp. "Where's Melodie?" he snapped.

With a remorseful expression, Rosenberg rubbed at his jaw. "I don't know."

"What do you mean, you don't know?"

"I…I'm sorry. He came at me with the sword. I thought he was going to kill me. He hit me across the face and I must have passed out for a minute. He wouldn't hurt her, would he? I don't understand what's happening. What he said about Paris…is that true?"

Erik turned his back on the manager, afraid that he would strangle the man with his bare hands if he looked upon his face for one moment longer. His fingers curled into fists, clenched so tightly they trembled. Assaulted by a white-hot fury, Erik literally felt ill, his stomach churning. Standing here was a waste of time. He had to get moving and find her.

And when he found Wentworth, he would finish matters once and for all.

* * *

A/N: As usual, sorry for the length of time between updates. But never fear, I won't abandon this story. It will be heading to its conclusion soon. In response to one review that stated I was idealizing Erik a little, I'm guilty as charged. I admit it. But hopefully you're enjoying the story anyway. Thank you to my betas and to everyone who has taken the time to leave their reviews. I enjoy them so much – a little too much! Please let me know your thoughts on the chapter. Thanks. 


	26. Ch 25: The Final Threshold

"_If you're innocent, you won't object to the removal of your mask."_

Only when Melodie tasted blood did she realize how deeply she was biting her lip. In her mind, she cursed David with a colourful string of words. Henry would be appalled by the extent of her vocabulary.

She felt Erik step away from her, and then she was propelled forward into the arms of another man.

"_Take care of her."_

Hearing Erik's curt instruction, her mind rebelled against being cast aside, yet she understood the reason for it. Rosenberg's hand was warm on her shoulder but she took no comfort from its presence.

When chaos erupted around her, she clutched at the sleeve of the manager's jacket. "What's going on?" she demanded.

Rosenberg guided her further across the stage as he spoke. "They're fighting. I can't believe this is happening."

She heard the pounding of feet, could feel the floorboards vibrating, as people fled for the wings. "Is he all right?" she asked.

"Who, Blythe? He appears to be holding his own." Rosenberg sucked in a breath. "Oh my God."

The sound of shouts and screaming filled the air, making Melodie's heart race. "What? What is it?"

"Fire. The curtain is on fire. We have to get out of here."

Feeling the tug on her arm, she tried to shake off the pressure of his hand. "No."

"Melodie, please. We have to go."

She could smell the smoke now, could almost taste it, acrid and bitter. Her eyes stung as she literally dug her heels in. "No. I'm not leaving him."

Rosenberg gasped with dismay but before she could ask what was wrong, a blurry shape filled her vision. Her forearm was captured in a bruising grip and she heard the manager grunt, as if in pain. "Mr. Rosenberg?"

She was almost yanked off her feet and then hauled along by an unknown captor, though she had an inkling of whom it was. She tried to wrench herself free, to no avail. "Stop! Let go of me."

"Let her go, David."

The furious voice was Henry's and he confirmed her suspicion of the mystery man. She barely registered that fact before she heard the dull slap of an object striking flesh, followed by a thud to the floor.

Alarmed, she cried out, "Henry?"

Once again she was jerked forward, but this time she struggled with all her might. "What did you do to him? Henry!" Panting from equal parts fear and exertion, she raised her free arm and found her mark, raking her nails across David's face. She should have expected it, but the force of the blow across her cheekbone stunned her. Left dazed and nauseous, her resistance ebbed as she was dragged along, stumbling several times over the hem of her skirt. Though she attempted to keep her wits about her, she was unsure of where they were. David had not uttered a word and she wondered why he was so mute. "This is madness, David. What are you doing?"

"Something I should have done long ago."

She was spun to the right and her hand was smacked against a railing. "Climb," he ordered from behind her.

Not knowing where these particular stairs were leading, she shook her head. "No. I refuse to go any farther." Fingers seized her chin, forcing her to look at an object placed inches from her nose; it was the glinting blade of his sword.

"Start climbing or I will slit your throat where you stand."

Any doubts that he was serious were erased when his face also came into focus. His bloodshot eyes reflected a chilling intensity that she had never seen before. Perhaps he truly had gone mad.

With a renewed surge of dread that made her shiver, she forced one foot in front of the other and began to ascend the staircase. Each step took her farther away from Henry and Erik. What had befallen them?

An idea came to her. Tilting her head, she snaked one hand through her hair and undid the clasp of her hairpin – the one Erik had given her. Enfolding it in a fist, she slid her hand down the front of her skirt and let it go. After two heartbeats, she heard a faint clattering sound. David did not make a comment so she could only hope he had not noticed.

She prayed that Erik would find it and in turn, that he would find her.

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Erik headed for the nearest wing of the stage. The area was not well lit and he tripped over something, almost falling before managing to regain his balance. He glanced down.

"Henry!"

Kneeling, Erik bent over the body lying prone on the ground. His gaze swept over the bloody gash that marred the older man's temple and came to rest on the eyes – eyes that were open and staring into space. Erik was reminded of the time when he had found Melodie in a similar position. He placed two fingers on the side of the man's neck but this time, no reassuring pulse met his fingers.

Henry was dead.

With a heavy heart, Erik murmured, "Je suis désolé. Repos dans la paix, Henry." He had no doubt that Wentworth was responsible for this. That bastard was completely out of control and the fact that he had Melodie in his clutches…

Grimacing, Erik stood and continued to make his way to the backstage corridors. As much as the emotions were crowding in and trying to take over, he had to remain level headed. He couldn't allow anger and fear for Melodie's safety to cloud his logic.

The area backstage was deserted, the complete silence almost eerie. David could have taken Melodie through several possible routes – to the rear of the theatre through the stables, around to the front or through the side entrance. As Erik tried to decide which might be the most likely choice, his boot crunched down on something. Normally he would have kept on walking but something made him stop to investigate.

It was Melodie's hairpin.

He stooped to pick up the object and turned it over in his hand. While it was possible that it had simply slid out of her hair, it might also serve as a clue to her whereabouts. Melodie was clever. She could have deliberately dropped it. Taking a look around him, he spied the nearby stairs that ascended to the roof. There was no escape that way. Surely, David would not have chosen that dead end.

Erik took three steps towards the rear corridor and then halted. He turned his gaze back toward the staircase. Some unknown instinct tugged at him, luring him toward the roof. But if he was wrong, too much time would be lost and hopes of finding her would dwindle down to an impossibility.

"_Merde_," he muttered.

He slipped the jewelled ribbon into his pocket, next to the lasso that he'd retrieved from his cloak. Taking the stairs two at a time, he ran all the way up.

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Melodie gasped at the shock of cold air that assaulted her senses. Shivering, she hugged her arms tightly against her chest. Wind whipped at her hair, tossing strands into her eyes and across her face. She wasn't sure if it was the force of the wind or the strain of the endless flight of stairs that stole her breath away.

Coming to her side, David took hold of her arm again and led her forward. Though she wanted to resist, she didn't. At this point, it would be a fruitless endeavour. When he stopped, he released her arm.

"David, talk to me," she implored. "Why did you bring us here?"

"We'll see if Blythe is successful in stopping the fire. I rather hope he is, as I confess to not relishing the thought of being consumed by flames. Either way, my miserable life will come to an end tonight. And so will yours."

As the meaning of his words sunk in, Melodie's lips parted but no sound emerged. Her shivering intensified until her teeth started chattering.

"You're drunk. You don't know what you're saying."

David laughed. "Yes, I'm drunk. That's why I have the courage to do this. My life is in ruins and it's all your fault."

"_My_ fault? You can't blame me for the failings of your life. That's absurd."

"Is it? You've been a thorn in my side since the day Henry brought you home."

"So you're going to kill me? You may be many things, but you're not a murderer."

"Your faith in me is charming. My father has always said I've never set a goal for myself and achieved it. Maybe it's time I proved him wrong."

With that statement hanging in the air, Melodie became silent, contemplating all the disadvantages against her. Never having been on the roof before, she was unfamiliar with the layout. She didn't have a weapon, not even her cane. And as much as she hated to admit it, her lack of sight was a serious problem.

Although it was night, a faint glow that she assumed to be the moonlight prevented her world from being immersed in total blackness. Closing her eyes, she made a wish on a star.

She had to convince David that he still had a life to live.

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Erik slowly opened the door. As he peered out into the darkened stillness of the rooftop, his eyes adjusted to the wan light. Pausing to listen, he heard a voice carry on the wind and breathed a soundless sigh. Melodie was talking, though he couldn't see her.

He ventured out a few feet more, taking cover behind a lone statue. It was the only adornment on this roof and he was grateful for its presence. He could allow himself a few moments to assess the situation without being seen.

Creeping forward, Erik craned his neck and saw Melodie and David, mere steps away from the edge of the roof. He wondered if she realized how close to the precipice she was.

"You're wrong," she was saying. "Your father loves you."

"Please, spare me the platitudes," David sneered.

Erik's gaze flickered back and forth between them as they talked. David still gripped his sword, though it was pointed downward and did not seem an immediate threat. While the lasso would have been Erik's preferred means of wringing David's neck, he couldn't use it while Melodie was so close. He had no other weapon to consider except, perhaps, one that he had not exercised in many years.

Erik hoped it wasn't too rusty from disuse.

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As Melodie continued to drone on about his father, David found that he was barely listening. Instead, he thought about how disastrous this night had turned out to be. His cheek still throbbed from the blow Blythe had dealt him. Despite David's earlier words to Melodie, he wasn't entirely confident that he could go through with this plan of extinguishing both their lives. It wasn't the first time he had considered it but he had never come this far before. He should have consumed another bottle of brandy to further dull his doubts.

David regarded Melodie through bleary eyes, struck by how beautiful she looked tonight. He realized, with a strange sort of clarity, that he both loved her and hated her. It was the same mix of feelings that he'd believed he reserved only for his father. The revelation seemed to loosen his tongue and he started rambling about his woes – his disinheritance, his loss of Olivia, his lifelong battle to please his father.

Melodie never interrupted him, seeming to listen with a sympathetic ear. Even through his alcoholic haze, he knew that was probably wishful thinking on his part. Still, it made her even more endearing.

"One more kiss," he muttered, closing the distance between them. Before he could savour her lips for the last time, movement in the corner of his eye distracted him.

Blythe emerged from the shadows, a completely black silhouette save for the unearthly radiance of the white mask. David almost took a startled step back. Catching himself in time, beads of sweat broke out on his brow, his heart pounding. He had deliberately brought Melodie to the roof's edge but he wasn't ready to take the plunge just yet.

Grabbing hold of Melodie once more, David swung her around and held the sword to her throat. He addressed his uninvited guest. "I know your reflexes are quick but it will take less than a second for me to kill her. I suggest you stand well back. You were successful in stopping the fire, I presume?"

"Yes."

"Of course you were. I suppose you're the hero now. How splendid for you."

"I understand, you know, how you feel about your father."

Hearing Blythe's gentle, soothing tone, David scowled. "Don't try to patronize me. You know nothing about it."

"I know only too well. You've spent your entire life trying to please him yet no matter what you do, it isn't good enough. After an eternity of trying, it's simply easier to give up. He's your father, a powerful figure, someone you both love and hate. I understand because I've been there, but it doesn't have to be like this. You don't need him, David. You can forge a life on your own and move far away where no one knows you. You can start over without answering to anyone. It can happen but it starts here. All you have to do is put down the sword. Put down the sword, David."

David stared at the composer, directly into eyes that shone with impossible brilliance in the dark of night. He was trapped in that gaze, unable to glance away, and yet he felt safe and content. He didn't want to look away. He wanted to obey. The voice was compelling and reverberated in his mind with a calm but clear command.

_Put down the sword, David._

His grip on the sword began to relax and his arm dropped. Though David didn't see Blythe's mouth move, he could hear the musical voice.

_Good, David. Now, step away from Melodie._

Thudding footsteps and a shout that echoed through the air snapped David out of his trance.

"David, don't be a fool! What are you doing?"

David blinked and shook his head at the sight of Ramsey running forward. With a guttural cry of rage, David raised his arm again, the blade pressed flat to Melodie's neck.

"You traitor! And you have the gall to call yourself a friend."

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Erik suppressed his urge to groan aloud. He had been so close. Like a puppet master, he'd manipulated David's strings and bent his will. If he'd only had a few seconds more, Melodie would be safe in his arms. Instead, she continued to visibly tremble in David's grasp.

"I am your friend," Ramsey said.

"I saw you leaping to Blythe's side to help him. No friend of mine would have done that."

"You would have rather seen the entire theatre engulfed in flames? A repeat of the Paris disaster?"

"Yes," David hissed.

Ramsey appeared shocked by the answer and when he responded, he spoke quietly. "Then I'm sad to say, perhaps you're right. No friend of mine would hope for something so evil."

"I'm glad we understand each other," David said, his tone dripping with sarcasm. He turned his gaze to Erik. "Your trickery was impressive. Is that how you made Melodie care for you?"

As much as Erik tried, he couldn't stop the pulse that came to life beneath his eye. "It's not too late, David. You can still walk away from this."

"I'm not under your spell any longer. Don't waste your breath. Say goodbye to your Erik, Melodie."

Erik's eyes bulged at the swiftness of David's motions. In one second, Melodie was there, caught in David's grip. In the next second, she was gone, her scream slicing through Erik's heart.

David had pushed her off the roof.

"_NO!_"

Erik's anguished cry exploded from his throat. He began to run and barely noticed that David was coming toward him, sword held high. Erik didn't stop to think. He acted from sheer hatred and fury. Blocking the downward slash with one hand on David's forearm, he punched David in the face with the other. David's head snapped back from the force of the blow but he continued to cling to the sword. Rage gave Erik more than enough strength to wrench the weapon from David's grasp. He plunged the blade, almost to the hilt, straight through David's gut.

Erik cursed himself for every opportunity he'd had to end this man's life. If he'd only heeded his base instinct – the murderous impulse that lurked within him – both Henry and Melodie would still be alive. Now she was dead and something within Erik shrivelled up and died too; his world had been reduced to darkness and insanity once again.

David's face had slackened in an expression of comical surprise. With fierce satisfaction, Erik shoved him backwards and felt a savage thrill when he tossed the body over the edge. His chest heaving, a roaring in his ears, Erik panted for breath. When he heard the familiar voice floating from below, he thought his mindless plunge into delirium was complete.

"Erik!"

He looked down and his jaw fell with joyous disbelief.

"Mellie!"

Several stone gargoyles protruded from the face of the building. Melodie was hanging on to one of them with both hands. Directly beneath her was air – hundreds of feet of nothingness that ended with the cobblestone streets of London.

Erik dropped down and lay on his stomach. Edging out as far as he dared, he stretched his arm. His fingers splayed, wiggled, but he was just shy of reaching her. "Mellie, give me your hand."

"I can't."

"You can."

"No, I can't!" Desperation laced her voice. "I can't support myself with one hand. I…I'm barely hanging on. Please help me. Don't let me fall."

Erik understood the problem. The stone was wider than the span of her palm, making it difficult for her to grip it easily. She was literally hanging on by her fingernails.

He slid forward another inch but it still wasn't enough. When he moved again, he started to topple over. Trying to back-pedal, he only succeeded in throwing himself further off balance. He felt a sharp yank on his jacket and for a hair-raising moment, he was suspended in mid-air. In the next instant, he was being pulled back to the solidness of the roof.

Jumping to his feet, Erik extracted the lasso from his pocket and then ripped off his jacket. He didn't even bother to thank Ramsey for bringing him back to safety. Only as he started tying the rope to his waist did he notice the blood on his hands – David's blood. He wiped it off on his shirt.

"I need you to lower me down, just a little. I'm a few inches short of reaching her."

Ramsey gaped at him. "With that thin little rope? You're a big man. It can't possibly hold…"

"It can and it will," Erik interrupted. He tied a firm knot and prayed his claim was true. "It's stronger than it looks. Here. Wrap it in your fists." He thrust the other end of the lasso into Ramsey's palm.

Ramsey sounded panicked when he spoke. "I don't know if I can do this. You must outweigh me by at least…"

At the end of his patience, Erik cut him off again. "You only have to support me for a few seconds until I can pull her up myself. There's no other way." He seized the man's shoulder. "But if the rope starts to slip and you think you can't do it, yell out to me. I'll try to bring Melodie up to you somehow. Grab on to her and let me go. If the choice is my life or Melodie's, you must save her. Understand?"

Ramsey nodded. "Yes."

Erik flattened himself down once more and reached out, dropping lower. "I'm coming, Mellie."

Her voice was reduced to a whimper. "I can't…can't hold on."

"Just a second longer, love. I'm almost there," he urged, straining to close the gap. At last, he clamped on to each of her wrists. "Got you. Ramsey, start pulling back!"

With a lurch to his stomach, Erik felt his grip slipping on her left wrist. Blood had trickled down from her injured fingers, making the contact slick. He tried to squeeze harder but the slide continued until he lost the battle.

Melodie screamed, now dangling from a single limb.

Clenching his teeth, Erik stretched back with his free arm, relieved when he felt the stone of the roof's ledge. He had neglected to tell Ramsey that he would actually be supporting the combined weight of himself and Melodie. However, Erik was now in the position to scramble backward on his own.

His grip on Melodie's right wrist began to slip.

"Erik!"

_Dear God, help me._

"Don't worry, Mellie. I've got you."

Only seconds ticked by, the equivalent of three heartbeats, but Erik could have sworn his heart ceased altogether: Within the first beat, he knew he had no alternative but to grab her arm with his other hand. In the next, he stretched himself out and momentum began carrying him downward. He had failed and they were both going to die. In the final beat, he felt his leg being yanked and he was dragged upward.

The three of them collapsed on the rooftop. Ramsey tumbled over onto his back and Erik gathered Melodie into his arms, so tightly at first that he may have crushed some bones. Relaxing his hold slightly, he closed his eyes. He wasn't sure who was trembling more; it was probably him.

Erik extended his arm towards Ramsey and they shook hands. "I am in your debt," Erik said. "Thank you."

As if unable to speak just yet, Ramsey merely nodded.

Erik finally drew back from Melodie, noting that she continued to shake. Reaching for his crumpled dresscoat, he draped it over her shoulders and rubbed at her back. She still hadn't spoken and he assumed she needed a bit more time to recover. He took a moment to undo the lasso from his waist, thinking it ironic that the weapon had been used to help save a life.

Her voice was small when she broke the silence. "David?" she asked.

"He's dead."

Her face remained blank but then she gripped his sleeve, her brow furrowing. "Henry. He hurt Henry. We have to make sure he's all right."

Erik stiffened, his mouth going dry. He attempted to clear his throat but his voice remained hoarse. "Mellie, I have to tell you something."

"He's badly hurt, isn't he. That bastard. I'm glad David is dead." Melodie's tone was venomous and she was practically spitting.

"It's worse. There is no way to make this any easier so I'm just going to say it. Henry is dead."

"What? He can't be."

"He is. I found him myself. He suffered a blow to the temple. Depending on the intensity and the precise location, it's a means of killing a man. Wentworth probably used the butt of his sword."

"You found him?"

"Yes."

"Then you're wrong."

"Mellie…"

"_You're wrong!_" she cried, leaping to her feet. She threw off his jacket. "Take me to him."

Her eyes were wild and glassy, her voice as brittle as ice.

He was afraid she would shatter in her next breath.

"I'll take you to him," Erik said.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Melodie clung to her belief that Erik was wrong – that Henry was alive – for as long as possible. Hope carried her down the stairs and enabled her feet to keep moving. When they reached level ground, she heard people milling about but couldn't distinguish what they were saying. Her only focus was getting to Henry. Everything else was reduced to an odd buzzing in her head.

Erik halted and murmured near her cheek. He was the only person that she seemed to hear clearly.

"We're here," he said.

She knelt down and stretched out her arm, finding the curve of Henry's shoulder. Following the downward slope, she trailed a path that led to his hand; it was icy cold to the touch.

She jerked her own hand back as if burned, clutching it to her chest.

Erik's breath warmed her ear. "Mellie, the Inspector is here and wants to talk to me. I'm not leaving you. I'm just a few feet away, all right?"

She nodded. Leaning forward, she brought her face close to Henry's. She needed to see him, his dear, wrinkled face. Though it was marred by a hideous gash and streaks of dried blood, she only saw the kind soul of the man that had raised her with love. Her hopes were dashed after all, for he truly was dead. And she would never get the opportunity to call him 'Father'.

She remained on the floor, unaware of the passing time. It rather surprised her that she was so calm. In fact, she felt nothing at all. No pain. No grief. Not even an urge to cry.

_What kind of a woman am I?_

Erik returned to her side. "Are you ready to go?" he asked.

"What will happen to Henry?"

"The authorities will take care of him for now."

"Do you think he suffered?"

"No, I think it was quick. Mellie, let me take you home."

"He should have a blanket. He's cold and he's not fond of the cold. He always liked the summer. I know it makes no difference but I hate for him to be so cold. Will someone bring him a blanket?"

Melodie knew she was babbling but she couldn't seem to stop herself.

A new voice joined in and she recognized the owner to be Ramsey. "I spoke to the Inspector. You're in the clear, Erik. How is she?" he asked.

"Henry needs a blanket," she said.

"A blanket?" Ramsey repeated.

"Yes."

"I'll take care of it."

Satisfied, Melodie kissed Henry's forehead. "Goodbye…Father."

Time seemed to leap forward and she became aware of her surroundings – a rhythmic rocking motion and cushiony seat beneath her. She didn't remember getting into a carriage. She was leaning against Erik, wrapped in his jacket, and the feel of his body beside her was comforting. Her hands were cold, her fingers throbbing with pain. Reaching into a pocket for warmth, she found a small, velvet-covered box.

"What is this?" she asked.

"Oh, it's for you but the timing isn't right," Erik said, sounding uneasy.

"For me?"

He took the box from her and the bleary shape came into focus before her eyes. It was a ring – a sky blue stone with diamonds set on either side of it. "It's beautiful," she stated. Her voice sounded strange to her own ears – entirely flat and void of emotion.

"I asked Henry earlier in the evening for…well, for permission to marry you. And he granted it."

"I see."

"But as I said, the timing couldn't be worse. You don't have to say anything. We'll talk about this some other time."

"Some other time," she parroted.

Frowning, she wondered what was wrong with her. She vaguely understood that she must be in shock but the knowledge didn't seem to help her. Talking was tiring. She didn't want to talk anymore.

More time escaped from her and she realized the carriage had come to a halt. Erik assisted her and when her feet touched the ground, her stomach churned in a rolling wave. With a moan, she said, "I'm going to be sick."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

After Melodie finished retching, Erik scooped her up and carried her into the house. Sascha greeted them with a wagging tail but Erik couldn't stop to give her the attention she sought. He would have to make it up to her tomorrow.

Melodie's behaviour worried him but considering everything she had been through, perhaps it wasn't so strange. She lapsed into long periods of silence in which she didn't seem to be aware of anything around her. When she did speak, it was stilted and mechanical, as if every spark of her spirit had been extinguished.

Once upstairs, he set Melodie down on his bed. She sat upright on her own but stared ahead, listless and unmoving. Erik tore off his shirt and tossed it on the floor, glad to be rid of the bloody linen. Pulling on a fresh shirt, he didn't bother to button it. He was more concerned with tending to Melodie's wounds. Her hands and arms were a complete mess. Several fingernails had ripped off completely and the soft undersides of her arms were scraped raw. He guessed that when she fell near the gargoyle, her arms had grazed along the stone until, by some miracle, she managed to grab hold of it.

Erik shuddered even now, contemplating how close he'd come to losing her.

Within minutes he'd retrieved a pitcher of water, basin, soap, and clean cloths. He used some of the cloths to cleanse the cuts and finally, he wrapped her hands and arms in the makeshift bandages. Exhaustion was creeping up on him but he ignored it. He removed his mask and wig, placing it on the bedside table. Sitting beside Melodie, he rubbed at his face and regarded her.

"Can you undress yourself or would you like me to help you?" he asked.

"Yes, thank you," she said.

He quirked an eyebrow at the response. Emitting a sigh, he began the task of removing her dress. The last time he had tried this, he hadn't gotten past the corset.

When he'd finished, her dress, corset and stockings were hung over a chair, her shoes placed underneath. Melodie remained sitting on his bed in her chemise. Erik supposed that if he were a true gentleman, he would have guided her to her own bed. However, he didn't trust her to be alone tonight. He wasn't about to let her out of his sight.

"Try to get some rest, love," he said, nudging against her shoulder. After she lay down on her side, he climbed in and arranged the covers around them, wrapping an arm around her waist. Sleep would not come easily to him tonight.

Kissing the top of her head, Erik began to hum a lullaby.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Erik awakened to two distinct sensations; he was alone and something was wrong.

Flinging out an arm, he only felt the coolness of the sheet against his fingertips instead of a warm body. He lit a candle and stepped into the hallway. The door to Melodie's room was closed but he could hear her sobbing. His gut twisted at the heartbreaking sound.

Knocking on the door, he let himself in. "Mellie?"

Within the wavering glow of the candlelight, he saw her huddled on the bed, curled into a tight ball. Her face was buried into the pillow, her cries muffled. At the sound of his voice, she lifted her head.

"I'm s-sorry. I didn't want to w-wake you."

"It's all right."

"I can't seem to s-stop crying."

Erik set aside the candle and ventured closer, unsure of what to do. Perhaps she wanted to grieve in private. Her next request, however, made things easier.

"Erik?"

"Yes?"

"Would you mind h-holding me?"

He sat down on the bed, legs outstretched. Melodie crawled into his arms and renewed her weeping against his chest. The sobs were less forceful now, allowing her to speak more freely. "I can't believe he's dead. It isn't fair."

"I know."

Tears continued to leak from her eyes, even as she swiped them away. "There's so much more I could have said to him. Now it's too late. I loved him so much. I didn't tell him often enough. He died trying to protect me."

Erik said nothing, stroking her hair. She became quiet and for a while, the only sound was their breathing until she spoke again. "I'm sorry. I didn't even thank you for saving my life."

"I should thank you for having the bravery and strength to hang on for as long as you did. I can't even think about what I would have done if…"

His voice trailed off. He couldn't even complete the sentence without feeling sick.

"It's really over, isn't it. Now that David is gone."

"Yes."

"Are you in trouble with the authorities?"

"No, Ramsey was most helpful with that. He was a witness to what happened on the roof. And when the Inspector questioned me about the accusations that Wentworth had made about Paris, Ramsey stepped in and said that he had been mistaken. That I wasn't the man responsible for the disaster there."

"He said that? How remarkable."

"Indeed. The man has been full of surprises. And I mean that in the most positive light. Perhaps he's trying to atone for participating in David's sins."

"Erik, back in the carriage, was I dreaming or did you show me a ring?"

Swallowing, Erik shifted. "No, you weren't dreaming. It was very real."

"What did Henry say when you talked to him?"

Erik fell short of actually smiling but the memory was a pleasant one that he would recall for years to come with fondness. "He said that while he's loved having you for a daughter, he's always wondered what it would be like to have a son. Then he said he looked forward to the day when he could officially call me 'son'."

Eyes awash with fresh tears, Melodie looked upward. "You do realize," she said, "that you haven't officially asked me. Ask me the question, Erik."

"Now?"

"Mmm hmm."

His heart thudding, Erik felt light-headed. It was beyond ridiculous. He couldn't believe he was actually nervous after everything that had happened tonight. But he was. He tried to clear his throat and only succeeded in sounding strangled.

"Melodie, would you do me the honour of marrying me?"

She smiled at him and kissed each of his cheeks, then his mouth, before pulling back and answering.

"Yes."

They continued to hold each other until Melodie's eyes closed, her breathing deepening. Erik watched her sleep. Eventually, his eyelids grew heavy, his head lolling back.

He dreamed of slipping the ring on her finger and calling her 'wife'.

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_Je suis désolé. Repos dans la paix, Henry_

French translation (I hope – it's courtesy of BabelFish): I'm sorry. Rest in peace, Henry.

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A/N: Many thanks to my betas and as always, thank you so much for your reviews. I hope I've satisfied my readers with this chapter. It's gone through several re-writes and I think I've now read it too many times to be objective anymore. I will say I've found it very difficult to be original in the 'big climax' and in the originality department, I'm not entirely satisfied myself. But hopefully you found it entertaining anyway. That's the main thing, right? Okay, that's what I'll keep telling myself :-) If anyone in lurkdom cares to step forward with a review, now would be a good time. Dare I say there's one chapter left? I look forward to hearing everyone's thoughts. Thanks.  



	27. Epilogue: A New Life

Melodie sat on the couch, legs curled beneath her, absently running her fingers through the soft fur on Sascha's head. When she and Erik had returned earlier in the evening, Sascha had been restless, wandering throughout the rooms and issuing periodic whines from her throat. Puzzled at first, Melodie finally guessed that the dog's sensitive nature had picked up on the changes that had been made within the house. Most of the furniture and household items had been moved to their new home this morning. This would be their final night in Erik's cottage.

Melodie had moved back with Erik following the night of the concerto, to recover both physically and mentally. While she had enjoyed her independence, it was a comfort to be close to him again. Erik managed to be supportive without being overly stifling.

Albert Wentworth paid them a visit a fortnight after the tragedy. Looking haggard but dignified, he seemed to have aged ten years since Melodie last looked upon his face. First, he informed Erik that he bore no ill will against him for having caused David's demise. He was utterly shamed by his son's actions, especially where Henry was concerned. Following his awkward but heartfelt apology, Albert announced that he wished to transfer his late son's trust fund to Melodie. Stunned, she heeded her initial impulse and refused the offer but Albert insisted that she accept. She finally agreed to consider it.

Melodie discussed the issue with Erik. He admitted that pride did not make him fond of the idea but that it was ultimately her choice. While she did not know how much money was involved, she imagined it was a generous sum. Pondering the matter over a few days, she at last decided to accept the gift and put it to good use. She and Erik intended to continue composing together. The security of the trust fund would enable them to choose commissions that were of true interest to them, rather than accepting everything and anything in order to survive. Some of the money would go to Peter so the boy would have the opportunity to attend school. And in the back of her mind, thinking a little further into the future, Melodie dreamed of opening her own school – a school of music. She thought it sad that only privileged children born to wealthy families were exposed to such lessons. Her school would welcome any child that was interested in music.

Although both she and Erik were fond of his rural home, neither of them felt it would be wise to remain. They had deceived the townspeople by claiming to be uncle and niece. Once they were married, the truth would be revealed and make their situation too difficult. They also reasoned that their new life together should begin in a new home. They found a townhouse in London that was larger than the cottage yet still modest in size. Melodie was thrilled with the location. While she had enjoyed her stay in the country, she had missed the city life. It was even close to the Skylon, where they were promised to receive more commissions. Erik conceded it would take him a while to be comfortable with dwelling there on a daily basis but he also liked the idea of the amenities of central London. He still retained his taste for fine wine, tailored clothes, and exceptional music.

Now, on the eve of her last night in a place that had become home, Melodie contemplated how she'd run through a gamut of emotions today – her wedding day. They had chosen to be married in a private ceremony. While she had managed to hold back her tears during the exchange of vows, by the end of the 'husband and wife' proclamation, they'd overflowed down her cheeks. Joy and sorrow had created a bittersweet combination, seeming to split her in two. If only Henry had been alive to share in the moment, she would have been whole with perfect happiness. She had consoled herself by believing that he was there in spirit and in fact, he had been there in name; they had taken his surname of 'Blythe'.

The feel of hands brushing her shoulders made her smile and called her back to the present. A familiar voice murmured in her ear – her husband's voice.

"Are you ready to go upstairs?"

She tried to ignore the jump in her pulse at that simple question. "Yes, I am." When she found herself lifted in his arms, she couldn't contain a giggle. "What are you doing?"

Sascha emitted a single bark, as if indignant that Melodie was being taken away. Erik chuckled. "Sorry, Sascha. I'm afraid you'll have to stay here." He began walking towards the stairs. "I realized that I neglected to carry you over the threshold when we came in. It isn't quite the same, but carrying you upstairs will have to suffice."

Melodie nuzzled at his throat, her fingers playing with the fine hairs at the base of his neck. "I'm not complaining."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Erik set Melodie down on her feet, unable to tear his gaze away from her – his wife. His mind seemed unable to grasp that this was real. He had surrounded his bedchamber with candles, and their combined radiance cast a soft luminance over Melodie. She was a vision in her simple, ivory dress, dark hair sleek and flowing down her back. He cupped her cheek with one hand, tracing over the freckles that she hated and he adored.

"Are you nervous, love?" he asked.

"No. Yes. A little. Are you?"

"Terrified. But somehow, I think we'll manage."

In a little over a week, it would be Christmas. Erik had never celebrated the holiday before and had never understood the appeal of it. But this year, circumstances were different. His whole life was different. With the exception of the prayers his father had forced him to recite as a child, Erik had asked for God's assistance more times since he'd met Melodie than in his entire lifetime. Each time he'd appealed for help his prayers had been answered. Erik wasn't ready to start attending church on a regular basis but he did acknowledge that some divine intervention must have brought this woman into his life. Since the time he'd been born, he'd been set on a course into darkness. In various fleeting moments throughout his existence, he'd glimpsed the occasional flicker of light and hope. Those moments, however, had been too brief to dispel the shadows. Only now did he see a new path before him, bright with a constant, unwavering glow; a path of love.

"Erik?"

She brought her hand to his cheek – the twisted, ravaged one – and stroked it gently. "Is something wrong?"

"No. For once, everything is as it should be. More than I ever hoped it would be."

Erik pressed his lips to her palm. Entwining her fingers with his, he led her by the hand and said, "Shall we go to bed, Mrs. Blythe?"

"Finally," Melodie said. "I thought you'd never ask."

"**We are all born for love…It is the principle of existence and its only end."**

**Disraeli – _Sybil_**

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A/N: Thanks to everyone who has commented on the story. I appreciate the reviews so much. If anyone is interested, I will be self-publishing 'Deception' as a book through a print-on-demand service. It has now gone through extensive editing and revising, and is much improved from what is posted here. Please see my profile for more details.


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